Teenagers
by Consulting Writer M
Summary: Teen!lock, eventual johnlock. John Watson, captain of the rugby team with a "good boy" status, is looking forward to another year of secondary school as an upperclassman. That all changes when the new transfer student, a boy with insane intelligence and a punk rock fashion sense called Sherlock Holmes, happens to show up in his life. Rated M for language, sex, and abuse.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: The Car**

"But Dad, come on! I'm almost in my 12th year. I think I can drive myself to school by now."

"Still, you're sixteen and just got your license."

"I have a license for a reason."

"You still have little driving experience."

"Seriously?"

"Look, your mother and I are worried about you. We don't want you driving out there on your own just yet. Besides, your sister would be happy to drive you."

It was the age-old argument John had hoped he wouldn't be having with his father. His father was usually lenient when it came to these things, but, of course, he had to side with his mother on decisions like these. His sister had the same dilemma, but John thought maybe that was because she was their firstborn and that she was the first to learn how to drive. Plus, even though she miraculously survived her driver's test, she was still, even to this day, a more reckless driver than John.

John was in his eleventh year of schooling. By then, one is sixteen, with all the rights and privileges given to any English citizen of that age. That also meant, if one had his/her license, driving. He thought at least by now that his father would allow him to drive to school, given that he had a car he could take and a license. He had now become fed up, and so had his father, who wasn't going to change his mind no matter how much they argued.

"Fine," John grumbled, taking his school bag and swinging one strap onto his shoulder, leaving the other strap hanging down with the rest of his backpack. His father sighed, relieved yet still upset with John and his adolescent attitude.

The Watsons cherished both of their children to an extent. Harry, their daughter, was already at Uni, but she commuted at home, still living under the roof of their apartment building. Her relationship with her parents became shaky when she came out as gay, but other than that, there was nothing too bad about her. John, on the other hand, was a gem. He got good grades, wanted to practice medicine, played on the rugby team, and barely ever got into trouble. His only problem seemed to be his temper, because sometimes he had trouble controlling it, which is why his father suggested rugby. He also needed a job or some way to attain money if he was ever going to study medicine at a good school.

John walked out of the apartment, making sure he had everything he needed - cell phone, books, lunch money, rugby bag. Everything was in his backpack except his rugby bag, which he found on the sofa and snatched before he left.

He walked down several flights of stairs to get down to the side of the road, where Harry was waiting for him, leaning on the car with hands in her pockets. She looked like a character in a 90s telly program, with sandy-blonde hair just to her shoulders and a jean jacket. If she had a headband and was blowing bubblegum, she would've looked exactly like a 90s character.

Harry gave John a grin before she said, "Catch!" She threw something to him, underhand, and he caught it, recognizing the familiar jingle of keys as it flew into the air and into his hands. "You wanna drive, Johnny? You got it!"

"Dad won't let me drive," John replied. "He said you should."

"Eh, it's just to school. Once you get to school, I'll take the car, then I'll pick you up after rugby practice. Easy."

"You'll let me drive?"

"How many times did it take you to pass the test?"

"Uh...once?"

"Bloody showoff. You can drive."

That was how John ended up driving to school. He didn't think that having his sister in the passenger's seat was weird, since he knew people who drove to school with their parents in the passenger's seat. Those kids were a lot like John, had an average home life if not below average, where money was difficult and they could only afford one car. Some people had more than one, but even then at least one parent took the tube to school and back.

Life hadn't been too easy for John and his family after they moved. When his father lost his job at the hospital, they had to find somewhere else to live and work and go to school. With Harry's tuition and loads of bills overdue and a lack of a job, finding an apartment with two bedrooms and a bathroom at the least was difficult in London. Dr. Watson had said that the apartment was "temporary," but they ended up living in that apartment for almost two years now. Adjusting wasn't easy, but in that time John found himself on the rugby team and with a multitude of kids and teachers knowing his name and acting friendly in the least. Still, even though John had a couple of acquaintances, he didn't really have any real friends. That year, however, he was determined to change that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: The New Kid Part 1**

John pulled up near the curb before getting out of the car and switching places with Harry. He opened the back door to grab his bags, slinging them over one shoulder. Harry rolled down her window before he could go inside.

"Hey," she said, "Quasimodo. You're going to ruin your back doing that."

"Well, I can't exactly use my other shoulder, remember?"

"Is it still bad from that one rugby meet? Johnny, that was five months ago. It's gotta be better by now."

"It helps my leg."

"No it doesn't. Whatever. Just have a good day, and don't get into trouble and all that. Okay? I'll be picking you up from rugby later, so don't be smoking a joint before I get there."

"I don't smoke, Harry! I'm no junkie."

"I'm just teasing. See you, Johnny." With that, she drove off.

John turned on his heel and headed into the school, but not before noticing a car that followed behind Harry's. It was black, brand new, unlike the old, rusty thing John drove to school. John mouthed a silent "woah" as he turned towards the school, not seeing who was being dropped off in such a nice car.

* * *

><p>John was sitting in his homeroom, fiddling with a pen and minding his own business, when he heard about it.<p>

"Did you hear? We got a new transfer this year." A new transfer student. That was enough to get a thousand rumors going.

"I heard he was kicked out of his old school for getting in too many fights."

"I heard he's got tattoos."

"Heard he was a meth head."

John ignored it all. He hated that people assumed too much without even getting to know the person first. Of course, he only believed that because he was in the same boat himself for a while. After a day or two, the rumors stopped, but he didn't know if that was going to be the same for a new transfer student.

John was sitting next to someone he could call a friend, Mike Stamford. Mike Stamford was an optimistic kid, full of fresh ideas and smiles. He was perfect for student council, which was probably why he was on it. He didn't play any sports, though, which was why he seemed to get rounder every year. Some kids would pick on him, but not John, so Mike hung around him more often. John liked Mike, too, because he was social and fun to talk to. They could've been friends, but he and Mike shared completely different circles in school. While John played on the rugby field, Mike would sit in the stands and cheer him on.

"So," Mike began, "I bet you've seen the new kid, huh?"

"Actually, I haven't," John replied. "I only heard the rumors. Tattoos, meth, expulsion, all that shit."

"I don't think he does meth or got expelled...I don't know if he was expelled or not, but I think he might have tattoos."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because...you should take a look at him. I bet you two have at least one class together."

"Mike, I'm not going to judge someone based on their appearance. That's low, even for you. But I will...try to talk to him, maybe. I've been meaning to make some friends."

"Aren't I your friend?"

"Uh...sorta. I guess. I didn't really know what we were. But I meant new friends."

"And Sarah?" Sarah was John's girlfriend, a serious girl who also wanted to practice medicine, which sparked an interest in John and later a romance between the two.

"Girlfriends don't count."

"What about the rugby team?"

"That's my team. They don't count either. Just because we're a team doesn't mean we're all friends. And I said new friends, Mike."

"It could also help your rep. You've got a 'good guy' rep going on. A lot of people...I think they like you. They don't hate you. You're a likable guy."

"Says the most optimistic guy I know." Mike laughed at that. "So, do you actually know anything truthful about the new kid or am I stuck guessing?"

"Well...he seems a bit off-putting. He's quiet...he's pretty smart, by the looks of it, taking an AP course. I also saw a couple books he had in his bag. Almost all of his classes are AP."

"Wow."

"Other than that, that's all I really know, except that he's tall."

"Okay, that...helps, I guess. Did you get his name at all?"

"I don't remember. It was something odd. But don't worry about it, John. You'll know who it is when you see him."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: The New Kid Part 2**

John did have an AP class the next hour - AP Biology. He had tried to get into a higher-level science class for a long time, his passion for studying medicine pushing him forward. His dad was certainly proud when he heard that he would be in a great science class. At least ten kids were smart enough to get into it. And one of them was the new transfer student.

John sat in the class with a few other students his age. Most of them were girls, one of them being Molly Hooper, a shy girl with a fantastic capacity for knowledge, always on high honors with John. She was chatting with a friend, as was John with two boys he knew, but everything stopped when the door opened.

Everyone turned to look, even John. Not all the chatting stopped, but to John, the whole room went quiet. The transfer student walked into the room, quietly as if he didn't want to make a scene, but he seemed to.

The new kid was tall, like Mike had said, and the skinny trousers he wore and the fact that he was extremely thin made him seem taller. Although he was thin, he wasn't lanky; he had great posture and composure. His face was really pale, almost too pale, which contrasted his dark, curly hair, which was trimmed to a point where it was a bit long on top but still looked clean and masculine. If the school allowed uniforms, he certainly wouldn't have piercings in his ears (and more than one in each ear, for that matter!). He wore a white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to show a multitude of different "bracelets," tucked into black skinny jeans and matched with high-top trainers. His backpack hung down his shoulder like John's did.

The boy held a slip and handed it to the professor. "Ah," he said, "you're Mr. Holmes." He looked up at the class. "Everyone! Settle down...alright. As you might know, we have a new student here. Would you like to introduce yourself?"

"Not really," the new student replied. A couple boys chuckled at that, including John, who tried not to laugh.

The professor just rolled his eyes. "Alright. Some kids are not as brave as others, Mr. Holmes. Go ahead and sit down at a table, and then we can begin class."

The new kid looked around a bit, and the first empty seat he could find was the one right next to John. John was initially okay with having a new kid - or any kid - sit next to him, but this kid was...intimidating. He wasn't scary in any way, but Mike did say he was off-putting. He sat there, putting his pointy elbows on the desk, resting his chin on top of his intertwined fingers. He only glanced at John with his piercing blue eyes. John looked away quickly, in almost a terrified manner. He felt humiliated for being so quick to judge him as intimidating.

As the teacher continued to talk about the syllabus and the class procedures, John decided to take the opportunity to try and talk to the new kid.

"Hi," he began. The new kid didn't look at him. "Hello. I'm John Watson. You never mentioned your name-" He turned his head slowly, giving John a look of confusion. He pointed to himself. "Yeah, you. I'm talking to...you."

The new kid looked at him, his eyes darting up and down John's body. He tilted his head slightly, continuing to look at him, but then turned his head back to the front of the classroom.

John tried again. "What's your name?" Again, the new kid refused to respond. With that, John gave up trying to talk to him. Still, the new kid would continue to look at him. He'd turn away when John looked, but John could just tell that this kid was staring at him. Maybe he wanted to murder him for talking to him? He barely talked to the guy. Or maybe he was waiting for John to say something again? John wasn't sure.

Finally, near the end of class, the new kid tapped his shoulder. John jolted at the touch, having become jittery. He sighed, looking over at the new kid. What he said made John's eyes widen and his jaw almost drop.

"You're on the rugby team. But you're shorter than the other ones I've seen. And friendlier. I can only assume it's because you haven't gone to this school for very long, but longer than I have. Perhaps a family issue? Financial matters?"

John blinked. "What?" was the only thing he could manage to say.

"And you also have a couple past injuries which you're babying long enough to strengthen them, but you need to use them as often as possible if you want to excel in rugby."

John was a bit astounded by all this. Not once did he think that this kid looked him up. There was no way he could've. Still, everything he said was not what John wanted to hear. The boy called him weak, babying his injuries, as well as poor. None of that crossed John's mind at that moment. He was only looking for one thing.

"I only asked what your name was," John sighed. "You didn't have to go on a whole rant about me."

"Oh." The boy lifted his hand for a shake. "Sherlock Holmes." He gave John a rather fake grin, which faded quickly as John looked up at him.

John chuckled. "You're not very good at social interaction, are you?" Before Sherlock could answer, he said, "well, believe it or not, I'm not as great at it myself." He shook Sherlock's hand with a smile. Sherlock didn't smile anymore.

The bell rang. Sherlock pulled his hand away quickly, taking his bag and hurrying out of the classroom. John might have not been so smart like Sherlock was, but when John thought he'd be scared of this new kid, it proved that maybe it was the other way around.

When John went home that day after rugby, he was glad to tell his mum when she asked him how his day was that he thought he made a friend.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hello! It's been a while since I've released a new fan fiction. Fair warning, however, because this is intended to be long and to drag on for a while. It's going to be my longest one yet! So I hope you all are willing to stick around a while. <strong>

**Anyway, thanks for reading my fan fiction. There will be more chapters soon. I've already written seventeen chapters and am on the eighteenth. Feedback is always appreciated. Thanks and happy reading! **

**CWM**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: The Science of Deduction**

"Hey there, Sherlock."

It had been a few days since Sherlock Holmes and John Watson met. Since then, the two hadn't talked. John had waved to him in the hallway, but the dark-haired boy didn't wave back. They sat next to each other in class, which was difficult, because he would try not to laugh when Sherlock made a smart comment. Sherlock was really intellectual, knew a lot about individual people. John wasn't the only one he ridiculed with his life. In fact, he did that with almost everyone he ended up talking to. This interested John, as well as some professors, greatly.

John noticed that Sherlock sat by himself during the lunch period. He thought maybe that he'd sit with the nerds or something, but he sat alone if he even sat at all. Some days he didn't even show up to lunch. John thought that he might even eat in the W.C. some days.

Today was different. Sherlock was sitting alone as usual, doing work. He never ate at lunch, which was probably why he was so thin. John was sitting with his girlfriend, Sarah, who rested under his arm, and Mike. John looked over to Sherlock and called him over.

"Hey there, Sherlock." Sherlock looked over to see John waving at him, motioning him to the table. "Come here. Come sit with us." Sherlock shook his head, going back to his work.

"John," said Sarah, nudging him, "you shouldn't force him."

"I don't understand," John replied. "He talked to me a few days ago, but now he won't even come near me. Did I do something wrong?"

"Maybe he's just not interested in being your friend," Mike suggested. "I thought for sure that maybe he'd want to. You're likable."

"Well, not to this kid... I think he's afraid of me."

"Afraid of you?" Sarah commented. "Why would anyone be afraid of you?"

"I don't know...maybe I -" Before he could finish, he heard the thump of a book on the table. Mike and Sarah looked over to see that the dark and taciturn boy had come to sit by them. John smiled at that. "Hey. What made you change your mind?"

"I was bored," Sherlock responded summarily. He looked up from his book, now getting a good look at the girl John had under his arm. He looked up and down at her, which was a habit John recognized and almost everyone recognized. He would look up and down, then tell you everything about yourself. John wasn't going to let this kid humiliate his girlfriend like he did to several professors and plenty of students.

"Stop," he said abruptly. "I know what you're trying to do, and you're not going to do it to my girlfriend. Understand?"

Sherlock was surprised, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, which felt like a pang of guilt in John's stomach, seeing as Sherlock might actually be afraid of him. Sherlock shrunk back to his book after that. John looked to Sarah, who was a bit shocked herself, as was Mike. It was a bit unlike him to get angry at someone he barely knew.

John sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get angry. It's just-"

"You catch on to my method quickly, John Watson," was Sherlock's reply. John blinked, not expecting him to respond that way. He thought he was scared, but maybe John over-exaggerated his reaction.

"Huh?"

"My method. My deduction method. Or do you not know what the hell I'm saying?"

"I...deduction?"

"Ugh." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And for a moment I thought you understood. Allow me to explain. It's deduction, observation. I observe people, little details and signs that lead to a much bigger picture. You see what I'm getting at?"

"Oh. That thing you do with your eyes, where you look a guy up and down. That's all observation? How? How could you get all that information from little details and signs?"

"Easy. Here, let me use your girlfriend as an example."

"_No_."

"Okay...can I use you instead?"

"Sure."

"Okay. Let's start with rugby. I know you're a rugby player. You hang out with the other rugby players often, and you might say that a lot of people talk to the rugby players, but you interact in a similar way that they interact with each other so I can only assume you're one of them, despite your height and physique. I almost didn't think you were, because you're actually quite friendly, unlike the others. So I wondered what made you so different, and then I deduced that you hadn't been here as long as they have. Yet you are acquainted with them, so you must've been here..." Sherlock looked at John's backpack. "Two years?"

"What about my family? You mentioned them before."

"Yes. Good on you for remembering. It's obvious that it's financial matters. Your father lost his job, so you had to move, and you're still on tight money, given the fact that you're wearing worn-out clothes, most likely hand-me-downs."

John's eyes widened. He was absolutely astounded by all this. Still, his curiosity few a bit further.

"How many siblings do I have?" John asked, challenging Sherlock with a sly grin.

Sherlock steepled his fingers, pressing his indexes on his lips as he looked up and down John. Then he came to a conclusion. "One. A...brother? At Uni?"

"Nope. A sister, but you got the Uni part right."

"Sister! There's always something." Sherlock huffed, a bit angry with himself.

"Still, that was...that was absolutely amazing."

Sherlock became surprised again. He looked at Sarah and Mike, who were in somewhat of an agreement, having seen Sherlock deduce in other classes.

"You think so?" Sherlock replied.

"Yes, of course," John answered. "It was quite extraordinary." Sherlock looked away from John, going back to his book. John became concerned. "What?"

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock muttered.

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off.'" John laughed at that, like he did most of Sherlock's witty comments. Sherlock let a smile escape him for once.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes**

Sherlock was a complete mystery to John sometimes. He didn't know where the tall, dark-haired boy lived, what his family life was like, what most of his interests were. Even though he talked to Sherlock more often after the deduction at the lunch table, there was still little knowledge as to who Sherlock Holmes actually was. John always imagined that Sherlock was some rebellious son of esteemed scholars who gave him his knowledge, but surely he wasn't exactly that.

Sherlock Holmes was many things. When most people look at him, he looks like a punch rocker, which he technically is. He came in tune with punk rock a few years ago, and his love for the music definitely changed his way of thinking as well as his style of clothing. His iPod was full of songs from Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, Skillet (although not a punk rock band but still good music), and My Chemical Romance. He had a lot of graphic band t-shirts, almost getting away with wearing one from The Sex Pistols, but his mother made him change lest he get in trouble. Still, he wore a set of large, black headphones and connected them to his iPod so he didn't have to listen to anyone. Sometimes he'd pretend he was listening to music when he didn't want to be bothered or was trying to eavesdrop on a conversation.

With listening to music, he also played it. He originally started with piano and classic violin, but then taught himself guitar and bass and drums. He was able to purchase used instruments with his own money, but his parents got him his own keyboard for Christmas. Once Sherlock got into punk rock, many of his instruments were banished to the basement because they were getting too loud, which allowed Sherlock to turn the storage area into his own personal recording studio.

Sherlock was a good student for the most part. He got above average grades, took any AP class he could, and was always high honors. Despite his amazing grades, he had a mouth on him, and he was sent to the headmaster more than a dozen times since he started school for either mouthing off or, when he began to observe people more closely, deduce and insult the professors or students.

All the professors wondered why he was so quiet once he came to school this year, but once he started talking they knew why. One of the only professors that actually didn't mind was the guidance counselor. His name was Mr. Lestrade. The silver-haired man had substituted for a few classes that Sherlock was in and had asked to see him periodically. There were even days where Sherlock would join him for lunch because he would rather sit in the counselor' office than face the chaos of the cafeteria. Even so, Sherlock didn't tell him much about himself or his interests.

In some ways, Sherlock was a bit like John. He lived with both of his parents, had an older sibling, and did really well in school. There were still many main differences. John's sister Harry had started Uni not too long ago, but Sherlock's brother Mycroft had been at Uni for a few years now, working on a law degree. John lived in an apartment, the family had one car, and they were struggling financially. Sherlock lived in a two-story house where they had three cars and his father worked for the British government.

John was also a bit more social, having dated a few girls and even having a girlfriend at current. Sherlock never had any sort of girlfriend, boyfriend, or intimate relationship and wasn't a big fan of the idea of being intimate with someone. So whenever he sat with John and Sarah at lunch, he'd turn his head when they publicly displayed their affections, sometimes pretending to shoot himself or vomit, but mostly rolling his eyes.

Both of them were athletes in some way. John, of course, played rugby, and had been playing throughout his secondary school career. Sherlock, on the other hand, did something unordinary - dancing. Ballet dancing. It wasn't exactly the most masculine of things, but he had stronger muscles because of it, despite his thin frame. He really loved to dance and had been doing so since he was a little boy. His fashion sense and his closed personality made it seem like he'd never be a dancer, and that's the way Sherlock liked it. If anyone found out, he'd surely receive a large wave of mockery from the multitude of voices he heard in the school hallway. He'd already been beaten up at the last school he'd went to and every school before that, and he didn't want to go through all of that again.

Over the next two weeks of school, Sherlock began sitting with John and Sarah and the occasional Mike or someone else at the lunch table. He didn't sit there every day, but most days he decided to, just reading or even putting on his headphones to listen to music and to distract him from everyone and everything. John's as just glad that he'd sit by him, although Sherlock made himself completely invisible. John wanted to talk to him, slide his headphones off sometimes, but was afraid of how Sherlock would react if he touched his sacred item.

John really wanted to make friends with Sherlock. Sometimes he thought it'd be better if he just left Sherlock alone, but he knew that no one truly wanted to be left alone. He could tell Sherlock adored the praise that John gave him, almost like a girl does when she's told that she's beautiful. He wasn't sure how he was going to get Sherlock to open up a bit more, but he hoped he could find some way to do so.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: Molly Hooper**

John wasn't aware that it was happening. Sherlock knew that it was better that he didn't know it was happening. He was good at hiding the bruises through long-sleeved shirts under graphic t-shirts and stealing a bit of his mother's makeup in case his face showed visible signs of beating.

Sherlock had hoped it wouldn't happen here. A new school, a new start, they had all said. With that, he had no intention of making any friends, which always led to making adversaries and monsters out of people.

And he had to open his mouth.

His mouth was what caused him the most pain. He could deduce a professor or student or anyone silently in his own head, but some people were just too idiotic for him to keep his mouth shut. To shut one's mouth, he could open his, but a mouth isn't the only thing that close. A fist would eventually close, leading to a swift hook to the eye or the nose, knees in the gut, hands clawing through his hair, and dozens of shoves and kicks into lockers or supply closets.

He tried to be closed, be rude and be avoided. His piercings and punk-rock appearance should have made him seem that way, or at least make him seem cool and mysterious. Instead it left the inside of his locker with the word "WANKER" written in permanent marker. He placed a Fall Out Boy poster in his locker to hide the word, but it burned in his brain like..._cancer_. He didn't want to think about that, either.

Two weeks into coming to the school, he opened his mouth again. Some boys from the rugby team were teasing him, asking him over and over to do "the trick." There was even a name for his deduction methods now. They all treated it like it was a talent, a party trick like making balloon animals. Still, they got what they wanted, and they were not pleased with the answer. It resulted in being shoved into a stall in the girl's restrooms. Sherlock's head hit the floor, and they ran out before he could recalibrate.

It was always the rugby team. Always. That's why John couldn't know. It was never any other jock, any other team. It was never a girl, either. Gladly, it was never John. John would never beat up or ridicule Sherlock. At least he hoped he wouldn't.

It was humiliating, absolutely horrible. He lay on the cold tile floor of the stall as he breathed, tried to keep composure so he didn't run after them and attack them. He didn't want to get in trouble, not like last time. Anything would actually be better than last time, but he wouldn't want to have a worse reputation than he already had.

That's when she came in. Sherlock had heard the door of the restroom open, and he froze. It could only be a girl. He scrambled to get off the floor, but it proved harder to be quick, having been injured worse than he thought he had. He groaned loudly, which attracted the attention of the girl who had walked in. He could see her shoes, a pair of white canvas shoes with a pair of baby pink socks patterned with cats, and he immediately knew who it was.

Molly Hooper. She was in a few of Sherlock's classes and did well in school as a whole. She had a few friends, but not many. She was kind to everyone, which was a bit of a bad thing, considering not everyone was as kind to her. In a way, she was a bit like Sherlock, except she was more submissive and way too colorful for his monochromatic tastes. He had deduced, however, that she lived with her widowed mother, that her father had died when she was younger, and that she sought the company of cats rather than people. She certainly loved cats, and anyone who noticed her socks could tell.

Molly walked over to see what was going on. When she saw Sherlock Holmes with a bloody nose, lying on the restroom floor, she gasped in concern, then knelt down to his level to help him.

"Oh, gosh," she muttered, "are you okay?"

"M'fine," he mumbled.

"Your nose is bleeding."

"What?" Sherlock put a hand above his lip, then looked to see that there was blood. "Oh."

"Here." Molly looked in her bag, opening a smaller pocket to pull out a travel pack of tissues. She handed one to him. "Lift your head. Press it, it'll stop the bleeding."

Sherlock took the tissue and followed her instructions. "Thank you," he said, "but I don't need a lecture on how to prevent a nosebleed. I've had plenty in my lifetime."

"That's upsetting," Molly said softly. She sat on her legs, keeping her hands in her lap, looking down. She looked to notice that his jeans had been torn, not on purpose, revealing what looked like skin but was recognized as something else. "Are you wearing pantyhose?" she asked.

"They're not pantyhose," Sherlock replied quickly, knowing he couldn't lie to her about what they were, "they're tights. You should know, you must've...taken a class once in your life."

"Oh." Molly giggled, which made Sherlock more humiliated. "I'm sorry. I just find it silly that you wear it under your regular clothes."

"It's easier this way...don't tell anyone. Hosing up in the girl's restroom with a bloody nose is enough humiliation for one day."

"I won't. I promise."

"I hope I can trust you, Molly Hooper."

Molly helped Sherlock up and out of the restroom, smiling and visibly blushing at the fact that he actually knew her name.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: The Beatings**

John was at rugby practice when he found out about it.

He was practicing for the next match that they had, making sure to exercise and retrain his bad leg. The first few weeks, it had been difficult for him to actually get his leg to move as quickly as he wanted it to. He had been resting it the entire summer, but it didn't take long for his bad leg to get almost just as good as his other leg.

He spent a few extra minutes on the field that day, kicking a football instead of the rugby ball at a wall. It would come back to him fast, alternating feet each time he kicked. After a while, he was worn out, but he felt energized. He remembered how Sherlock had said he was "babying" his injuries, but now he was working them out and using them for once. He grinned weakly in his improvement.

That's when he heard the laughing.

John could hear it from the bleachers. His entire team was standing behind them. They usually did this, drinking some sodas and telling jokes. This time, however, was different. Usually they would stand sprawled out, but today they were all in a circle. There was something in the middle of it that was drawing their attention, which made John curious.

As John came closer, he could see the looks of enjoyment in their faces, their laughter becoming less joyous and more hateful and mocking. Now John could hear what they were all saying.

"You learn your lesson yet, you wanker?"

"Let's see how smart you are when we bash your fucking head in!"

"Pathetic fuck!"

John couldn't believe it. They were beating some poor guy up. His eyes widened as he approached the circle quickly. He tried to push through to get a view, but one of his teammates noticed.

"Hey, Watson!" he said. "You gotta get in on this! Move, you arses! Let Watson through, let him get a good punch out of him!" His teammates moved him into the middle of the circle, like he was placed in an amphitheater against a raging bull. John soon realized that it was he himself who was the bull when he saw the poor victim.

One teammate got a good kick into the kid's side before their victim fell into the grass, curling up and shaking badly. John was absolutely shocked.

Sherlock had already begun forming several bruises. His lip had been cut, his eye was swollen, and his ear was bleeding from having his piercings forcibly pulled out. He struggled to sit up, groaning and coughing. And he looked at John with what John finally knew as fear.

"Go on, Watson!" his teammates shouted at him. "Throw a punch! Don't be a wuss!"

John clenched his fists, which made Sherlock tremble. His eyes begged for help, for mercy. And John hated himself for it.

"Go on, you arse! What are you waiting for? Throw a bloody punch!"

John cracked his knuckles and his neck, straightened his shoulders, and stared Sherlock straight in the eye. And John threw a punch...at the teammate behind him.

The rest of the team went completely silent, many with looks of shock, their mouths in the shape of an "o." The teammate he punched had fallen on his butt in the grass.

"What the fuck?!" he shouted.

"You said to throw a punch," John replied, shrugging. "Now get the fuck out of here and leave this kid alone!"

In less than a minute, the team scattered, most going to the locker room. John stayed out there with Sherlock, who was still trembling in the grass. John turned to him, squatting down to his level.

"Don't be afraid," said John. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"I-I'm not afraid," Sherlock stammered. "I-I just...am just in...fine. I'm fine."

"Sherlock, you're hurt. You're obviously not okay. And you're stammering. We should probably take you to the school nurse or something-"

"No. No...no, I'm alright. Your sister should...should be here."

"Yeah...want me to take you home, then? Or do you have a ride?"

"I...okay. T-take me home..."

John wrapped an arm under Sherlock, helping him get off the ground. Sherlock winced as he struggled to get on his feet.

"Can you walk?" John asked. Before Sherlock could answer, he wobbled and fell into John again. "I'll take that as a no. Here, I'll help." John kept Sherlock in his arm as he helped him walk over to Harry's car.

Harry noticed them walking and was not pleased at first. "What the hell?" she said. "John, what happened? Where's your stuff?"

"He's hurt," John replied. "Can you drop him off at his place?"

"I don't know where he lives, John. Can't he just call somebody-"

"Please?"

Harry sighed, tapping her thumbs on the steering wheel. "Alright. Put him in the back. Then get your bags, okay? But hurry up. I don't know when mum expects us home."

John helped Sherlock into the car. "There. Now you just-" Sherlock moved slowly to lie down in the seat. He groaned, miserable. John just nodded. "That's good. I'm going to go get my bags. Where's your backpack, Sherlock?"

"Where you found me," he muttered.

"Okay, good. I'll get your bag, be back in a few minutes, okay?" Sherlock nodded.

John ran back to the field. He looked for Sherlock's backpack, finding it stuffed in a garbage bin, along with his iPod that was still playing music. Then he rushed to the locker room to grab his things, paying no mind to the few teammates that were still there. And once he got back, he threw all his bags into the passenger's seat, sitting in the back with Sherlock, who was still lying down curled up.

"Did he give you his address?" John asked.

"Yeah," Harry answered. "I know where he needs to go." She started the car and began driving.

John handed Sherlock his iPod and headphones. "I found this in the garbage bin," he said. Sherlock didn't respond. John tapped his shoulder. "Hey...how long have they been doing that? Beating you up and all that?"

"Since I opened my mouth," Sherlock muttered, sitting up weakly and taking back his music. "It's not a big deal though. I'm used to it."

"_Used_ to it? Sherlock, you can't possibly be used to getting beat up."

"I'm always beat up at school. I'm a big fucking nerd with a smart mouth and I deserve to be punished. That's what the rugby team thinks, anyway. Just because you've never been beaten up doesn't mean you can't get used to it."

"I'm a rugby player. I get beat up all the time."

"No. Those are scrimmages, part of the gameplay. It's not really getting beat up. You've never been shoved in a locker or a supply closet, never hung by your shirt neck, never got your head dunked into a toilet or a mouth full of sand and rocks. You never experienced any of that. See? I can get used to it. That's my life."

"That's...wow. I didn't...I'm sorry, Sherlock. I should've...you could've said something. I could've gotten them off your back. You talk a lot of shit...but why don't you tell me something like that?"

"Because they're your team. Either you wouldn't believe me or you would..."

"I would what?"

"Join them."

"Never."

"You say that now, but I know you've got a temper."

"Sherlock, I'd never. How about I promise you that I will never beat you up? How does that sound?"

"And in return?"

"No conditions. There shouldn't be. You don't owe me anything, Sherlock."

"They're going to hate you for what you did, defending me. Maybe you'll get beaten up, too?"

"Well, I guess there's a first for everything, isn't there?" John chuckled, and he noticed Sherlock grinning. "Hey! You actually do smile sometimes. There's a smile."

"Shut up," Sherlock replied, still grinning.

After a few minutes of driving, Harry made it to the address Sherlock had told her to drive to. John became confused. It wasn't a house, not even near any neighborhoods. It was a dance studio in the city near the movie theater.

"Are you sure we're at the right place?" John asked.

"This is the address," Harry replied. Sherlock was already swinging backpack over his shoulder. He was about to get out of the car when John stopped him.

"Wait. Are you sure this is the right place?"

"Yes, John Watson," Sherlock answered. "I have practice, just like you. And that's all I have to say about it."

"You dance?" A grin appeared on John's face, and Sherlock was absolutely mortified. He got out of the car as quickly as he could. "Wait! Wait!" John got out of the car. "Wait! You can't...you're hurt. You can't practice like that."

"No, I get it," Sherlock replied, "it's all funny, all silly, I'm a frilly ballerina with all the glitter and rainbows. So - wait. What?"

"I said you're injured, and you shouldn't be practicing."

Sherlock was a bit surprised that John didn't laugh at his situation. He chose a much nicer response than laughter and mockery. "My mum will pick me up from the studio anyway, so I might as well stay."

"Oh. Alright...you sure you're going to be okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be okay. Thanks for...dropping me off...and not laughing at me. Or kicking my arse."

"No problem. Besides, a lot of guys dance. It's no big deal. I mean, I don't. Not like you do, anyway. But I bet you have impressive abs. I heard dancers have good abs."

"Are you...flirting with me?"

"What? Oh _God_, no! I'm not...no. I was just...trying to make you feel better."

"Oh. Well thank you for your consideration, but I'll be alright."

"And since what do you know about flirting? You've never been in a relationship before."

"Well I know what flirting is, and you don't know that I've never been in a relationship. Don't make quick assumptions. ."

"So I'll see you later then?"

"Sure." Sherlock went into the studio after that. John got back in the car with Harry.

"You were so flirting," said Harry.

"I was not!" John defended. "I...I'm not gay. I just want him to be my friend. Okay?"

"So you think his ballet dancing is silly?"

"Of course not. I was trying to make him feel a bit better. Sorry for trying to start a friendship."

"Seems to me like you were trying to ask him out."

"No. I have a girlfriend."

"So?"

"I'm not going to ask out anyone while I have a girlfriend, especially a _guy_! God, Harry!"

"Oh, okay." Harry began to drive back to their house. John thought about a lot on the way there. He thought maybe that this was the gateway to their friendship.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight: Pasta Sauce**

After the terrible pounding that John witnessed, he kept a close eye on Sherlock. For a few days, it seemed that everything was going alright. John felt pride in himself for conquering a bully, that it made the rugby team respect him. That feeling of pride vanished when he was tripped in the cafeteria. He hated himself for buying pasta with tomato sauce that day, an orange stain left on his shirt.

Sarah helped clean up his face with a napkin. "Are you sure it was on purpose?" She asked. "Sometimes people don't realize-"

"Oh, it was definitely on purpose," John grumbled. "There's no way that would be an accident. This is terrible."

"It's just a trip. It's not even as bad as it could be."

"Sarah, this might be the start of a whole...a whole mess of it. Next thing you know, I'll be hanging by my pants on the flagpole outside."

"John, you're overreacting," Sarah giggled. "You overreact too much. You should try to relax a bit."

"What if it does get worse?"

"It won't." She gave him a smile, and he smiled back, kissing her cheek. "Besides, you got more to worry about besides a face full of tomato sauce. You've got that match coming up soon. Are you excited?"

"Definitely. It's an easy opponent. And afterwards, I'll drive you home. I love driving you home."

"Will your parents let you?"

"Yeah, they will. My dad's going to have a new car by then. He raised enough money himself to get one. Kinda like a teenager, but he really likes it. Plus, Harry doesn't go to the games, so I could definitely go."

"So the car will be yours?"

"Yes."

John had been waiting for this game. The opposing team consisted of boys that Sarah went to primary school with, so she always came to that game. They had planned it for a few months, having been dating for over a year. By now, they trusted each other enough to be very intimate. A car wasn't as classy, but it was the only place John could really think of that wouldn't cost him money and wouldn't be as suspicious.

Sherlock moved over to their table. Once again, he had no lunch, just his school books. It worried John that Sherlock never brought a lunch or bought one. He worried he might have an eating disorder or didn't have money for a lunch. Sherlock sat there with his headphones in his ears, but, for the concern of his friend, John pulled down on them so they fell onto his neck. Sherlock snapped his head around, agitated.

"Sherlock," John said calmly, "you should probably eat something for lunch, shouldn't you?"

"What day is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Wednesday?"

"I'm fine for a bit."

"What are you - are you saying you don't eat for days at a time?" He said that quite loudly, and Sherlock shushed him. "I'm serious. That can't be good for you. How do you do that when you have -" Before John could even mention ballet lessons, Sherlock smacked his fingers with a book. "Ow! What the hell?" Sherlock literally hissed at him, putting his headphones on again and turning away from John.

Sarah just sat there, very confused. "Okay then. That was...different."

John held his sore hand. "That was rude." Then John came up with an idea. He tapped Sherlock's shoulder and slid the bowl of what was left of his pasta in front of him.

"Here," he said. "Eat."

"No way!" Sherlock refused. "That was on the floor. And in your face."

"You saw that?"

"Of course I did. I felt like the rugby team was going to seek revenge for bloodying up one of the biggest players on the team, so I thought I'd keep an eye on you."

John's eyes widened. "_You're_ keeping an eye on _me_? You don't seem like the kind of person who, you know, cares about people."

"Just because I'm watching to see what the rugby team will do to you is not caring. It's observing."

"So you'd just sit there and watch as I got beaten to a pulp? That's what you're saying? All for the sake of 'observing?' That's terrible!"

"What else am I supposed to do? I can't get into the fight. I'll just get beaten up with you."

"You know, if you were my friend, you would join me."

"Well I'm _not_ your friend, John Watson, so I don't have to do anything! I could leave you to die and it wouldn't matter because I'm not your friend and I'm not obligated to do anything for you."

John's eyes widened. Before he could say anything, Sherlock quickly grabbed his books, hugging them against his chest, and fled the table. John sighed, feeling a bit guilty, but more humiliated that he thought Sherlock was actually his friend. Still, something about the way Sherlock left the table was unusual. He left quickly, almost running, not stomping out of anger. When John looked around, Sherlock had seemed to disappear.

"Where'd he go?" John asked Sarah. Sarah shrugged. John began chuckling, which confused Sarah.

"Of course he's not my friend," he said. "He calls me 'John Watson.'" His laughter was somber, which worried Sarah a bit.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hello! Sorry for not updating over the weekend (I am human and I have a life outside of the Internet but I don't know why). Still, I will try to upload a chapter every day until I run out of chapters And have to write more. As I said, this story is going to be longer than my other stories (I'm planning on at least 60+ chapters and I'm already past 20). <strong>

**Also, fair warning, there are a few sexual scenarios. I am not very skilled at writing these sorts of scenarios, so bear with me.**

**Anyway, thank you for the lovely reviews! Feedback is always appreciated. Feel free to ask questions either about me or some of my other stories or if you'd like writing tips, because I will be answering some questions at the end of this story (Leave those in my PMs please). Thanks! Happy reading! **

**CWM**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine: Friends**

John was too late to stop the next bout of bullying that was thrown at Sherlock. A few days before the next match, Sherlock was confronted by two of the biggest rugby players and taken into the locker room, where they ripped off his clothes to reveal the leotard and tights underneath. With the bracelets and piercings, he looked so mismatched. The rugby players burst out in laughter, throwing him into the shower and turning it on. One of them pinned him down so that Sherlock didn't run out and not face the cold water on him. The other boy gathered Sherlock's clothes and threw them in a toilet.

That's when John came in. When he saw what they were doing, he was absolutely furious.

"Hey!" he yelled, his voice reverberating off the walls of the locker room. The two rugby players scrambled up and quickly found their way out, laughing and cackling at Sherlock's expense. It became clear to John that the rugby team was now trying to get away with it without John noticing. They were afraid of a broken nose, especially since the one who was holding Sherlock down was the one who received John's fist.

John quickly ran in, noticing everything around him - Sherlock, drenched in cold water, his clothes becoming soaked in the toilet. John turned the running water off and looked to Sherlock.

Sherlock was trembling, his arms wrapped around his chest, and he was coughing. He was completely soaked, his hair dripping wet and in nothing but a leotard and tights. John ran and got him a towel.

"Here," he said, wrapping the towel around the shivering boy. "It's okay. You'll be alright-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, his voice cracking as he continued, "it's not okay. None of this is okay. It will...it will never be okay. It never is."

"Sherlock, you're...you're overreacting." John swallowed, trying to calm Sherlock down. "You said yourself you're used to this. This...can't be any different from before-"

"LOOK AT ME!" Sherlock shouted, his words echoing. John backed up. Sherlock wrapped the towel tighter around his shivering body. He began to whimper, his head downcast, letting his dark, soaked hair fall over his face. "Just go," he mumbled, backing away shakily. "I've had enough humiliation for one day..."

John felt a pang of hurt. He knew Sherlock didn't want anyone to know about his ballet. Now that the rugby players knew, word would spread and only get worse.

This shouldn't have been happening, not to Sherlock. Sherlock was brand new, and in three weeks he had been tortured and bullied, beat up and left weak and helpless. On top of that, he didn't even have any friends. In three weeks, he should've found a group of people he related to, should be enjoying school and hanging out with friends.

John found himself lost in thought, and once he bounced back to reality, Sherlock was gone. He had left his clothes in the toilet and his backpack on the floor of the locker room.

* * *

><p>John saw Sherlock again the next day in the hallway. He was talking to some guys on his team, glad that none of them had any intention of ruining his life. He stopped his conversation entirely, noticing that Sherlock had come in without his backpack. John grabbed it from his own locker, along with a plastic bag with his clothes from yesterday, and went up to him.<p>

"Sherlock!" he called. Sherlock hesitated, but then kept walking, ignoring John. "Sherlock, hey! Wait!" John caught up to him. "I have your stuff from yesterday." Sherlock looked up and down John before he continued. "I, uh, asked my mum to wash your clothes. I aired out your trainers, though, and they're dry...and I have your backpack. I'd think you'd need that."

Sherlock blinked, then took back his things. "Thank you," he muttered softly. He swung his backpack over his shoulder and made his way past John.

John wasn't going to take that. It didn't matter anymore if Sherlock was his friend or not. Now he was truly concerned for him. He went after Sherlock, following him to the back of the school.

Sherlock sat on the ground, pulling a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from his backpack. Right there, he began smoking, his eyes turning to John. "Oh," he said, lighting the cigarette in his mouth, "follow me out, did you? You might be worse than me, actually having the nerve to follow me out here."

"I...I want you to talk to me," said John. "You need someone to talk to. You're not going to go to an adult or anyone else. The only person you can talk to is me. So talk."

"You wanna smoke?" Sherlock lifted the cigarette pack to John's level, offering him one. John shook his head, declining. Sherlock nodded in understanding, taking a puff. He exhaled a cloud of smoke before he started talking again. "Sit down. I don't like when you're standing. It makes me feel short." John sat down. "I don't need to talk about it. You know everything."

"I don't think I do," said John. "Yesterday was different. You say you're used to it, but you didn't act like it."

"Yesterday was a bad day. I'm allowed to have bad days, aren't I? Besides, I've been keeping my ballet lessons in the dark for years. Now that they know..." Sherlock trailed off.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John said. "I can't imagine how...how you feel at all."

"I haven't felt the urge to vomit for a long time, not until yesterday."

"Did you?"

"I almost did... And you don't have to be sorry, John Watson. If anything, I am grateful that you showed up. It would have gotten much worse if you hadn't interfered."

"Uh...no problem. And you don't have to call me 'John Watson.' Just John is fine."

"Okay...John." He took another puff out of his cigarette. "John?"

"Yes?"

"Are we...are we friends now?"

"If you want to be."

"Okay then...friends."

John smiled at that. Suddenly, the bell rang. Sherlock put out his cigarette and flicked it behind a garbage bin.

"Do you have gum?" he asked.

"Not usually," John replied, "but Sarah gave me some. You like spearmint?"

"Yeah." John pulled the pack of gum from his pocket, took a stick for himself, then gave one to Sherlock.

"You know you shouldn't smoke, right?"

"My father smokes, my brother smokes, I smoke. That's how it works. I blame my father."

"A family tradition, then?" John joked as they stood up and walked in.

"You could say that. Don't tell my mum. She hates it when we smoke."

"I won't tell her. Promise."

Before class began, John exchanged numbers with Sherlock, that way Sherlock could text or call him if he needed help or just needed someone to talk to.


	10. Chapter 10

**WARNING: This chapter contains sexual content. **

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter Ten: The Match<span>**

The next rugby match was a day away, and it's all anyone on the rugby team could talk about. It drove Sherlock up a wall. Sherlock didn't care for rugby at all, especially after the beating and bullying he had received from all of the rugby team with the exception of John.

John, on the other hand, couldn't get his mind off of the match, or rather what was going to happen after the match. With a new car for his dad, John's plan was working out the way he planned it would. John was now able to drive himself to school, and everything seemed to be going his way.

However, when the words, "So are you coming to the match?" came out of John's mouth as they walked out of AP Biology, Sherlock groaned indifferently.

"Why is it so important?" Sherlock asked rather loudly. "It's not the first match. It's not he last one, either. I don't understand the hype."

"I was just asking a question," John responded, offended. "Jeez. I was just seeing if you were going to go."

"Well, I wasn't planning on it. I don't really enjoy watching sports matches."

"Come on, it's fun. You'll get to see me play. I heard the concessions were pretty decent. And you're not going to be the only one that's there. Plus, the rugby team will be focused on the game. They won't even know you're there."

"It's still cold this time of year. And I have to be near people, with all their diseases. And families with small children will be there, who will all be crying and screaming and it will be awful. It'll be a maelstrom of a night and you know it."

"Wow. And I thought _I_ wasn't really a people person."

"You thought you weren't a people person? Ha! That's hilarious."

"Come on, Sherlock. Please? If you come to this game - just this one - I will come to one of your ballet...things."

"You mean recitals?"

"Yeah, that."

"Really? You'd really come to a ballet recital? That's rich... Alright then. I'll come, but you better be a man of your word."

"I am." John and Sherlock shook on it. John truly was a man of his word, and always tried to keep it. If he had an obstacle, he'd try to overcome it, but if he couldn't he would always have next time, although a pang of guilt went through him when he did.

* * *

><p>The night of the match, John was pumped. He'd been training his bad leg for weeks just for this moment. He began putting on his rugby jersey with the other teammates in the locker room. He couldn't stop himself from smiling, knowing that Sherlock would be watching him play, and so would Sarah, who would later meet him at his car.<p>

Once the match was ready to begin, John and his team ran out onto the field. John saw Sarah in her baby pink jacket, her hair tied up, waving and cheering him on. Next to her was none other than Sherlock. John almost didn't recognize him, but the hair gave it away. Sherlock just sat on the cold, metal bench, wearing a black knitted cap and a blue scarf on his neck, watching in ennui as the players came out. It didn't matter to John all that much, as long as his friend was there.

The match was a blur to John. It was just like any other match, went on for a couple of hours, sweating from the forehead despite the bitter cold of the early autumn night. John took every hit that was thrown at him. He had no idea how he continued to get up over and over again, proceeding to play in spite of his dirt-caked face and his grass-stained uniform. None of it seemed to matter to him at all. All he could think of was how his team was winning, how his girlfriend was cheering him on, and how his friend was..._leaving_?

Sherlock was getting up from the bleachers and moving past the crowd. He stepped out of them, and then went behind them. He didn't appear out the other side, so John assumed he was trying to not get caught smoking or something. Still, when the team finally scored the winning point, everyone cheering and going wild, John was a bit discouraged that Sherlock wasn't watching.

John thought about seeing Sherlock after the game, but his mind went to other places after he changed and snuck out of the boy's locker room to meet Sarah at the bleachers.

"Hey, you," she said, smiling giddily as she pulled him close. "Great match tonight. I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks," John replied, kissing Sarah's cheek. Sarah looked at him, taking a tissue out of her pocket and wiping some dirt off of his face.

"Sorry," she said. "I don't want you to be doing me with a smudge on your face." John laughed, almost nervously. He still had confidence and rigor from the game, and as he led Sarah to his car, he made sure it would last him an hour or two at most.

John dropped his rugby bag in the passenger's seat, watching as Sarah slid into the back and took off her coat and scarf. John left his coat and even his shoes with his bag as he quickly made his way to the back seat with her, shutting the doors and locking them.

John sighed, then turned to Sarah, who gave him a smile. She swung her legs up onto the seat as she began taking off her jeans. John undid his belt in the process, feeling his face heat up and turn red. Once he had his trousers off, he turned back to Sarah, who had taken off her sweater and was ready to undo her blouse.

"Allow me," John said, crawling over to her and sitting on his legs in front of her. He gently took her blouse and began unbuttoning it slowly, button by delicate button, until he could see her bra. Once every button was undone, he looked up at her and finally kissed her. She kissed back just as passionately. As their lips locked and their tongues intertwined, he caressed her hair, letting his fingers card through the light brown silk. John found himself climbing over her, moving his hands to her back.

Now, John had practiced this. He had literally borrowed some of his sister's bras to teach himself how to take one off quickly and without an awkward moment. He would never tell Sarah that he had been practicing, but it showed when the clips popped off a bit too easily. At the moment, he didn't care. As the bra slid off her shoulders, he made his way in again.

It was a long, heated hour or so. The car quickly filled up with steam from their body heat, fogging the windows and leaving the two sweating like it was a sauna. Nobody came close to the car, most of the spectators and players gone, but if anybody did, they would surely hear the noises coming from the back seat, gasps and moans from two sexually active teenagers.

When it was over, the two were both completely nude with damp hair, trying to catch their breath. The used condom was lying on the floor of the car, along with their clothes. John had his arms around Sarah from behind her, his chest on her back, his head resting on her shoulder blade. Sarah arched her neck to kiss John's temple wearily. He moved his head to kiss her lips again. They both sighed afterwards, smiling.

"Are you sure you never had sex before?" Sarah asked. "Because you did very well on your first try."

"Well," John replied, "it was my first time. I wanted to be prepared. Plus, I'm a teen boy. I've seen a bit of...you know. Not anymore, just-"

"I get it, John."

"I'm not saying you didn't do well, because you did..."

"I can't believe we're not virgins anymore...I liked it. It was fun."

"Same here... We could do it more often."

"Maybe...if we ever get an opportunity like this again."

"Don't worry, we will."

Sarah and John began putting their clothes back on again. Getting out of the car was an insane idea, all the fog and heat spewing out of the car as they opened it, releasing the cold air onto their once warm bodies.

John moved his bag into the boot of the car. As he did, he checked his phone to find a text message, sent to him around the time he started having sex with Sarah.

_Behind the school. Emergency. Need help. SH_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven: Trash**

Sarah followed John back to the school, behind it where Sherlock had said to be.

"What if he's not here anymore?" Sarah asked. "It's been over an hour. He couldn't possibly-"

Suddenly, there was a large, echoing thump. John and Sarah looked over to see the trash skip. They looked at each other before John walked over to it. A groan came out of it, and a familiar one, too, as John looked inside to find his friend, without his coat, lying in there.

"Sherlock?" John gasped. "What are you doing in here?"

Sherlock sat up, then tried to climb out, slipping and stumbling over and over as he did. John helped him get out, asking him a number of questions.

"What happened to you? Where's your coat? Are you alright? Did someone come and beat you up? What-"

Sherlock pushed him. Hard. John stumbled backward, almost falling over until Sherlock tugged him by his jumper and yanked him over to the wall, pinning him there.

"How _dare_ you!" he growled. "You should know bloody damn well why I'm here! As if it isn't obvious already, your chums from the rugby team saw me at the game and took your phone and threatened me!"

"What?"

"And then one thing led to another, and I was thrown into the skip. I texted you! I asked for your bloody help! And where the fuck were you?!"

"I was...Sherlock, it was an accident. I didn't get your text until later. I'm sorry."

"Sorry? You're sorry? Oh, 'sorry, mate. I was too busy shagging my girlfriend to help you.' Yeah, that's rich!"

Sarah cringed. John pushed Sherlock off of him. "Stop it," John growled. "Fucking stop it. How did you know-"

"Christ, really? You reek of cum. Both of you. It's repulsive."

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I care about you, but I have other people in my life, too. I can't always be there to get you out of a fight."

"You said you would! You said if I needed help, I could contact you. I..."

"You trust me?"

"What?" Sherlock froze.

"You trust me. You count on me. That's what this is about, isn't it? Look, Sherlock, again, I'm really sorry about all this. Next time, I'll try to be here sooner. Okay? Do we have a deal?" Sherlock just nodded. John looked over to Sarah, who was relieved that they could work it out. "Alright. I guess I'm driving both of you home, then?"

John took Sarah and Sherlock home. Sarah sat in the front with John while Sherlock sat in the back. He cringed, shuddering whenever he noticed something in particular from the earlier sex that had been going on in that car. The other two couldn't smell it, but Sherlock could barely breathe, wrapping his scarf over his face so he could try and get rid of that lingering stench of cum.

"You disgust me, John Watson," Sherlock complained, "you really do."

"Oh, shut it," John retorted as he pulled up to Sarah's house.

"Thanks, John," she said, kissing him softly. "See you." She turned to Sherlock. "Bye, Sherlock. Hope you feel better." Sherlock waved to her, and then she departed into her house.

"You want to sit up here?" John asked Sherlock. Sherlock gladly moved out of the back seat and climbed into the passenger's, sighing.

"Fresh air," Sherlock sighed if relief.

"My cum isn't that bad, is it?" Sherlock just scoffed. "And why did Sarah say 'feel better?' You're not sick."

"I guess she was concerned about me...I don't know why. I'm not unwell. Do I look unwell?" John shrugged. "Wait, what's her last name?"

"Sawyer. Why?"

"Oh." He nodded. "Okay."

"What?"

"Nothing. Nothing to worry about."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve: Problematic Habit**

It was another long day for John. Once again, concerned for Sherlock, he offered him something to eat.

"Do you eat at all?" he asked, handing the thin boy a handful of chips. "You should eat something. Not eating lunch can't be good for you."

"Thanks for the offer," Sherlock responded coldly, "but I'm fine." He swept the chips back to John with the back of his hand.

"Look, if it's a weight issue, dieting, I can tell you right now that you don't need to-"

"I said I'm fine."

"Sherlock-"

"Are you deaf? I said I'm fine. That's your cue to leave me alone or change the subject."

"I just want to help you...you know, I've fasted before. It's not fun. Maybe if you ate more often, you wouldn't be so bitter." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm serious. Just...eat. Not for me, for yourself."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine, as long as you're paying for it."

"Sure. I'll buy you something. Got any allergies?"

"Not to food."

And that was how Sherlock had a lunch for school for the first time since he'd gotten there. He hated eating, the idea of digesting it down and the fact that he had to lest he starve and die. Digestion slowed him down, made him tired, and he hated that. He also hated when certain foods, especially foods hat he never tried before, didn't agree with him, going right through him or coming back up. His habits kept him thin, but he did eat when he felt it necessary or whenever he went to dinner with family. He knew he had to eat to keep at least some muscle on his slender figure for ballet and to focus, but it didn't change how he felt about it. A previous habit of fasting kept him that way, and nothing was going to change that.

He wasn't hungry. At least he convinced himself he wasn't hungry when John brought him some sort of chicken sandwich and a milk carton. He should've been more specific about what he would want to eat if he was convinced he was hungry at all. Still, Sherlock had his pride and ate what he could of it before gagging from the absolute misery. He hated milk as a beverage on its own, and mixing it with the taste of a chicken sandwich was just repulsive.

"Are you okay?" John asked, seeing how uncomfortable Sherlock was.

Sherlock just nodded in response, swallowing, actually feeling the sting of salty tears in his eyes. However, he finished the sandwich and drank the carton dry. He kicked himself for not being more specific. As he put his headphones on, he put his head and arms on the table, resting his head of dark curls on his wrists. He allowed the loud punk music to immerse him, to make him forget for a moment.

That was, until, John tapped his shoulder.

"Hey," he said. "The bell rang. We have to get to class."

Sherlock stood up, taking his books and walking out with John. He let out a belch as they walked, and the fear of his lunch not sitting well set in.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hello again! Very short chapters, I know. I'm sorry. Hopefully they're easier to read, though.<strong>

**Anyway, for those of you who weren't as fond of the sex scene, don't worry about it. You'll find out why, but not for a while. It was informative, however, to have your opinions. Feedback on my stories is always appreciated. Thanks and happy reading!**

**CWM**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen: Family Dinner Part 1**

John got back to the flat complex after rugby. He was in desperate need of a shower and something to eat. Once he got out of his car, he walked out of the parking garage and into the lobby of the building, where he took the lift up to the fourth floor.

John had lived in this building for two years. He knew who the landlord was and recognized a couple of neighbors by names and/or faces. Most of who lived here were older couples, businessmen who worked for large-scale companies but weren't the large-scale people, single parents, a few families, and a couple of other miscellaneous people. There were no kids remotely the same age as John, so he had no friends there. His father had made it obvious that it wasn't going to be a permanent arrangement, so John felt like he didn't have to associate with anyone and make a bond if he was going to move quickly. That was two years ago, still, and it seemed that only John questioned the idea of the "temporary arrangement."

John's family was what you would call "separated." His dad sometimes worked late hours, Harry and John were busy with school work, and his mum...what did his mum do? She didn't have a job, but she couldn't be sitting and doing nothing all day. Grocery shopping, most likely, otherwise there would be no food in the fridge.

That is exactly what John came home to - brown, paper grocery bags. There were at least four of them, filled with necessary food items like bread and eggs and other kinds of vegetables. It was almost odd to John. He hadn't seen groceries on the table since they'd moved. He looked around but couldn't find his mum, so he went into his bedroom to change.

The flat had two bedrooms. One of them was occupied by his parents, so that meant John and Harry had to share a room. John and Harry had shared a room before, even a bed at one point when they were five and eight, so they made the habit of keeping their stuff on their side of the room. Both sides had a bed and a desk, but they had to share a closet. Harry kept her underwear in a box under her bed so that John wouldn't find it in the closet.

As John set his rugby bag and his backpack on the bed, he saw Harry at her desk from the corner of his eye.

"Guess what?" she said to John.

"What?" John asked.

"Mum's making dinner."

"That's not really a surprise. She makes dinner all the time."

"Yeah, but she's all like, 'I'm sick and tired of this family not being able to sit down and have a relaxing meal together.' We're having a family dinner."

"We never have family dinner. Like, around the telly?"

"No, like at the table."

"You're not serious."

"I am."

"Why does she want us to be a normal family anyway? She knows that we aren't. Dad's busy, I've got rugby, and you're..."

"Gay?"

"A lot of people are gay. I was going to say in Uni. Busy, all of us. I think it's actually nice of her, you know? She just wants some time with the family. I guess that's good for us. I mean,w hewn as the last time we actually sat down and talked to each other?"

"You sound exactly like mum now."

"I'm gonna shower."

* * *

><p>Family dinner wasn't normal at all. Once Dr. Watson came home, he didn't expect to be having dinner at the table with the family.<p>

"What, are we dressing up, too?" he joked. "Seriously, what's the occasion?"

"No occasion necessary," Mrs. Watson replied, "just time with family. Well-deserved time. We haven't sat down in ages. We could actually talk to each other like normal people."

"Honey, I've seen plenty of people in my life, and let me tell you, there's no such thing as normal."

Once Mrs. Watson was done cooking, she invited everyone to the table to eat. It was completely silent. John would look at the people sitting around him and then put his head back down. He wasn't the best at starting a conversation with people.

"So," Dr. Watson broke the silence, which brought a wave of relief to the room, "how was your day?" He didn't direct the question to anyone.

"Pretty average," was Harry's answer. John just nodded in agreement, putting a forkful of food in his mouth so he could avoid talking to anyone. "Uni's getting into a pattern again."

"Have you looked for any apartments?" her mother asked.

"How about I get a job first," Harry replied, "then we can talk about me moving out. And so far, I've been looking for campus jobs or jobs in the city. It's not as easy once Uni starts and everyone is applying to the same fast food joint."

"At least you're thinking responsibly," Dr. Watson commented. Then he turned to John. "What about you? How's school and rugby going?"

John swallowed before he said, "It's going fine...I guess."

"You _guess_?"

"Not as great as I'd hoped. We lost a couple matches, won a couple. It's all even."

"And school?"

"Doing fine. I'm not causing trouble and I'm getting good grades." He sounded like he was reading from a script.

"Got any friends? Besides Sarah, of course."

Before John could answer the question, Harry interrupted him. "That one emo kid who wears all the bracelets and piercings. What's his name again?"

"Who?" his father asked. It became clear that John hadn't truly mentioned Sherlock before, not to his family. The only person who knew him was Harry.

"His name is Sherlock Holmes," John said, hoping Harry wouldn't interrupt him. "He's...he's in my AP Biology. He's smart, really, and not really as rebellious as his 'punk-ish' style makes him look to be."

"He's not on rugby?" his mother asked.

"Quite the opposite, actually...he's...uh, he and the rugby team don't get along."

"So why's he friends with you?" Dr. Watson asked. "If he's got a bad rep with the rugby team, how'd you become friends?"

"Because...I'm better than them. Sherlock seems to have a few issues, and you know me. I'm a nice guy. I'm not going to tear him down like my team does." John went on to explain what he'd seen the rugby players do to him. He also mentioned how Sherlock was observant, and that he had a bit of trouble keeping his opinions to himself, which was why he got beat up so often. He didn't mention ballet or anything that would be potentially embarrassing to himself or his friend. It made it seem like John barely knew him.

Then, Dr. Watson said something that John didn't want to hear. "If he treats people like shit, he's deserving of a good beating." There was a clatter. John was speechless.

Mrs. Watson almost choked on her food. "_James_!" she scolded. "You can't say things like that! No one deserves a good beating. He's just a boy."

"And he does keep his mouth shut sometimes," John said, "like in class. It's only the people he can't stand that he talks back to. He's a moody kid."

"He's a teenager," said Harry. "You can't expect him to be perfect."

"Well," Dr. Watson replied, "I'm just glad he's not _my_ son. I can't imagine what kind of messed-up family he was raised in."

Mrs. Watson smacked his upper arm, actually scoffing at the fact that he, who had a pretty big mouth on him, would criticize John's friend and his family. Still, it made John think of what sort of family Sherlock was with.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen: Family Dinner Part 2**

Sherlock was waiting on the concrete steps outside of the dance studio when the black car rolled up. The boy slung his bags over his shoulder and walked down to the car, opening the back door and throwing his bags in. He proceeded to the passenger's seat and climbed in, putting his headphones on and playing Panic! at the Disco as the car drove off.

It was Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, who drove the car. Sherlock barely glanced at him and immediately knew just how stressed he was. Law school must've been a large pain in the arse, tedious and almost too easy for his liking. He had gotten thinner, much thinner then he had been three years ago, even so before he went to Uni. He also seemed considerably tired and to be drinking more often than he should.

Mycroft's focus was on the road. Sometimes, whenever he drove with Sherlock, he'd scold him about how his music was too loud or how he shouldn't keep his feet on the dashboard. However, today, excluding Sherlock's music, the ride home was mostly silent.

"It's not a holiday, is it?" Sherlock finally asked. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"An unexpected one, indeed," Mycroft replied. "I'm here upon our mother's request. I didn't come here willingly."

"So she and Dad are at home, too?"

"Yes. And we're having dinner together. Which will be good for you. You've lost...what? Six pounds since I last saw you?"

"_Five_."

"No, I say six."

"You say six for me, I say ten or eleven for you at most. You're more 'anorexic' than I am."

"And you see why our mother insists on feeding me up. She's probably doing the same for you. You're the actual anorexic one, you know, and you shouldn't use the term so lightly."

"I'm getting a bit better. I'm eating more often. I even ate today. That's right. Someone bought me food, and I ate it." The memory of scarfing down the dry chicken sandwich mixed with plain old milk made him uneasy.

"Who bought you a lunch, hm? A friend?"

"An acquaintance, more or less. His name's John. John Watson. I've known him for three weeks. He's got some rugby injuries but he's a sympathetic sort of person. He's got a girlfriend, but it won't last, I can tell."

"Seems like you've gotten to know him well. Sounds dull, not to your liking. So why?"

"He's got wit. And heart. He's a remarkable bodyguard, had a few slip-ups but makes for a worthy companion. Except he cares too much. He's more in my business than I am in his. And he feeds me rancid food."

"Mixed feelings, hm?"

"Very mixed feelings."

* * *

><p>The two brothers joined their parents for dinner at the house they grew up in. They lived in a small neighborhood of large houses, not too far from the city and close to a number of schools. So when Sherlock had to change schools, it wasn't hard to find another school nearby. It was a two-story house, with a cellarrecording studio below and all of the four bedrooms upstairs - one master bedroom, Sherlock's bedroom, Mycroft's occasionally vacant bedroom, and a guest. They had five televisions, only two being brand new. It looked like a normal house, but the family inside was nothing but normal.

Most people in the neighborhood barely knew who they were. They knew Mr. And Mrs. Holmes, who had tried to be friendly when they first moved. That all changed when they had children. Their two boys were exposed to a cruel world and all the intelligence that could come from it. Because of that, making friends was difficult. Mycroft used to think that Sherlock was a slow child until they met other children and even adults. To the Holmes boys, everyone was slow and stupid. Their cruel, slow world was shut out to them, by their own request, because of that.

The four of them sat at the dinner table and began to eat what Mrs. Holmes had prepared for them. It had been a while since they had dinner all together, with Mycroft at Uni or Mr. Holmes working late nights. A lot of nights Mrs. Holmes enjoyed a silent meal with Sherlock. She never missed a meal with her "baby boy," not ever.

The Holmes family was very antisocial in public, but they were a talkative bunch at the dinner table. Everybody spoke at least one word or one sentence during dinner. Their conversation was very ordinary, most topics being people that they saw that day or other interesting events that happened. None of it was personally negative, except a couple of times when Mrs. Holmes became concerned about her husband or her sons.

That day, Sherlock had been yet again shoved into a locker. It left a noticeable bruise on his temple, which he tried to cover up with his hair. He knew nothing got past his mother, however, and cringed when she reached out to move his hair away.

"Another one?" his mother began. "Sherlock, this is he fifth time I've seen you bruised. What are you doing outside of this house that's leaving you so black and blue? Not getting into any fights, are you?"

"Not starting any," Sherlock mumbled, trying to put some food in his mouth to avoid talking. He waved her off.

"This is not okay. I cannot believe this. Why don't you tell somebody?"

"Now dear," Mr. Holmes tried to coax, "there's no need to panic-"

"Well, I am a concerned mother. If I ever find out who's bruising my boy, I'll be absolutely monstrous." Her husband sighed as she turned back to Sherlock. "My poor baby," she cooed as she let her hand caress his cheek. Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes, but not in front of his mother. "They just don't understand. Nobody seems to grace intelligence anymore. Hopefully you've been on the good side of somebody at that school."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, motioning him to tell her more. Sherlock sighed.

"I made a friend recently."

"Really?" His mother almost lit up in excitement. "What's his name?"

"John. John Watson. He thinks I'm brilliant. He takes a couple AP classes, but he's an athlete, really clean-dressed, unlike...me."

"An athlete," his father commented. "That's new. He's not a big jock, is he? You don't really associate with those folks."

"He's got a good heart, I guess. He actually cares about people. He doesn't know too much about me, but he still cares. He's gotten me out of trouble before, so he's...he's cool, I suppose."

"You told me he was an acquaintance," Mycroft said, "not a friend."

"You lost ten pounds since we saw you last," Sherlock replied quickly. "Would you care to elaborate on the subject?"

The attention suddenly turned to Mycroft. The elder brother looked at his concerned parents, then back to Sherlock, who rapidly flipped him off before anyone could see. Mycroft glared at his younger brother, who grinned mischievously as their mother began to go on a concerned rant.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hello again! Just dropped a note to let you know that I am intrigued by the feedback I have been receiving on my story. It's very mixed nowadays, which is new. And for those who are indifferent about the outcome, don't worry. Everything has reason behind it. <strong>

**Anyway, thanks for reading this far into my fan fiction. Feedback of any kind is always appreciated. Happy reading! **

**CWM**


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen: Jim

"Alright then! From the top!"

They had been practicing the same dance routine for weeks. The dance instructor looked over to the sound system, taking a remote and starting the music over again for the third time that day. The dancers began getting in position, and began to move as they were told when the music began.

Sherlock was one of the youngest dancers in the company, certainly the youngest boy. He wasn't the only boy, however. Including him, there were four. The rest were girls, aged sixteen to twenty. Sherlock knew them all by name, having danced with almost every one of them for years, yet none of them were truly good friends of his. After a long time away from the dance studio, the sound of classical music filling his ears, the feeling of a leotard on his skin and shoes on his feet, the smell of sweat but the familiar scent that only existed in the square room surrounded by mirrors, he was glad to be back.

If only Sherlock had been feeling better.

John had given him yet another "random" meal. Sherlock didn't even ask him for something to eat, and now John was trying to stuff his stomach with terrible cafeteria food, and the worst part was that Sherlock couldn't object to it, allowing rancid meals to be digested in his stomach. He could say no, but for some reason he found himself completely helpless, not wanting to get John upset with him. Was he afraid of John? He didn't exactly know how he felt about his "friend." Either way, he ate everything John offered to him, continuing this for a number of days. It made him absolutely sick.

Today, he couldn't even remember what the hell John Watson forced him to eat. Ballet distracted him for the most part, but all the twirling and spinning made it worse. Nothing was sitting right anymore, his stomach turning. Usually, his belly would ache from dancing for a long time, but now he knew it was different. The ache was much worse, his stomach gurgling in rejection.

He tried to ignore it for a while, continue practicing, but even he had his limits. Once his belly couldn't take holding his recent lunch down, Sherlock found himself running out of the studio room, hurrying towards the toilets to throw up. He found them quickly, rushing in and entering a stall, kneeling down over the bowl.

It took him a bit to actually retch. At first, he felt lightheaded, dizzy. His heavy breathing and a very upset stomach were the only noises he could hear. He swayed a bit, his body shaking. He groaned, clutching his stomach tightly.

"Oh, God," he groaned before belching loudly. He thought for a short moment that it was only a lot of gas, but then the bile rose up in his throat and he began retching. He continued to groan as he did so, purging whatever he had eaten and then some.

Even after he was done vomiting, his stomach still felt uneasy. He clutched it, groaning as he kept his head near the bowl in case he had to vomit again. His body continued to tremble as his blood pounded in his head.

That's when he heard footsteps. He assumed his instructor had sent somebody to check on him, since she knew that running out unexcused could only mean sickness or stress. He hoped maybe it was someone who would ask if he was alright, then realize he'd been throwing up and inform the instructor. God knows nobody does that anymore, especially who came in.

"Woah," came the disembodied voice from behind Sherlock, "that's a lot of puke. That was all in your stomach?"

Jim. Jim was the last person Sherlock wanted to find him. Sherlock had been dancing with Jim for years. Jim was a few years older, had more experience, but their skill levels matched up well to each other. He was even smart like Sherlock. They were almost like two sides of a coin, according to their dance instructor. Still, something about him was off-putting and almost creepy about him. He wasn't a bully necessarily, but he liked to get into Sherlock's head.

"By the looks of it," Jim continued, combing his fingers into his dark, slicked-back hair, "I'd say you were preggers. Then again, that's impossible."

"Because I'm a boy?" Sherlock muttered, cautious as to not turn around and look, lest he puke on the floor.

"Because you're a virgin," was Jim's reply. "Don't underestimate your gender. We're capable of great things, us men." Jim wasn't misogynistic at all, so Sherlock knew he was trying to mess with him. "A sweet virgin. How many girls in there are virgins, out of the eight girls?"

"Five. There are five."

"And how many boys? No need to answer, Sherlock. You're so green you might start blowing chunks again. It's only you."

"I'm sixteen. A student, not a...sex object." Sherlock turned his head to look at Jim, who was closer than he'd thought.

"Ah, yes, focusing on studies I see. But wouldn't you just enjoy a bit of pussy? Forget about your studies for a moment just to have fun and pleasure a woman?" Jim moved closer, touching Sherlock's shoulder. He came closer to the younger boy, his lips coming closer to Sherlock's ear. "Or maybe," Jim whispered, "you'd like a penis up your arsehole."

Sherlock's eyes widened. He felt Jim's hands clasp his chest as if he were fondling breasts, and he began wailing. He squirmed and kicked, screaming until Jim let him go. Sherlock found himself lying on the floor. His stomach gurgled again, and he wrapped his arms around his aching belly.

"Jesus," Jim said, grinning, "I wasn't going to fuck you. Not today anyway. You're a barfing mess. I'm not going to have you be barfing all over the place when I fuck you. Then again, it could be an interesting mix of vomit and jizz." He stood up, brushing himself off. "I'll tell Madame that you're puking your guts out. I'm off. Ciao..."

Sherlock had to comprehend what had happened. Jim wasn't a bully at all; he was much worse. This had happened a couple times, where Jim would be able to touch Sherlock's hips or his hands during a dance and they would have to get close. There was no mutual attraction, but both of them had the experience to make it look like they were truly lovers. That was how far Jim had gone until today, when Sherlock was at his most vulnerable. If he hadn't had food poisoning, it might've gotten a lot worse than it had been.

He slowly sat up, belching again, which led him to move quickly over the toilet bowl and begin to retch some more.

He stayed at the studio until his dad came to pick him up. Seeing his dad there meant that Mycroft went back to his boring Uni and wouldn't deduce that he had food poisoning. Sadly, any dull eye could tell he wasn't feeling good, even his father.

"Are you feeling alright, Sherlock?" Mr. Holmes asked, noticing that Sherlock looked uncomfortable on the ride there.

Sherlock shook his head, not in the mood for arguing with his dad. "I think I have food poisoning."

"Do you need a doctor? Is it bad?"

"No, just...it's just food poisoning, Dad. I'm just gonna vomit a lot, but most of my bodily fluids are down the pipes of the dance studio."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"It's just vomit. I'll live..."

"Alright...but if you don't feel well enough, you won't be going to school tomorrow."

"I'll live."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen: Lunch with Molly**

_Climbing out the back door, didn't leave a mark_

_No one knows it's you, Miss Jackson_

_Found another victim, but no ones gonna find_

_Miss Jackson, Jackson, Jackson, Jackson..._

Sherlock was listening to his music as he enjoyed a homemade lunch with Molly Hooper. Of course, he always listened to his music, but a homemade lunch with Molly Hooper was especially different.

Two days prior, Sherlock had to explain to his dad that he ate a bad lunch from the cafeteria then proceeded to feel sick, eventually throwing up. If he had told his mother, she would've been hysterical. Still, his father was concerned about what his son was eating. Sherlock didn't feel well enough to go to school the next day, but the day after, he came downstairs to find his dad had made him a lunch.

"Nothing here makes you sick, does it?" Mr. Holmes teased.

So Sherlock took a bag lunch. Thank God his dad knew what he liked to eat, unlike John Watson.

Sherlock wasn't sure how he was going to approach John Watson that day. He knew that the blond boy would be waiting for him, hand him strange cafeteria food and watch him scarf it down regretfully whilst he keeps his girlfriend under his arm. Sherlock didn't want to face him that day. And he didn't want to escape to the counsel of Mr. Lestrade merely because he didn't want to face John. So the punk-clad boy found solace in sweet Molly Hooper, who sat by herself at lunch as well. Why hadn't John noticed her before if he noticed how Sherlock sat alone?

Molly was a bit surprised that Sherlock came to sit by her. He didn't even ask if anyone was sitting there, just put his books down next to hers and sat at the table. He put his headphones on, but not before she said something.

"You don't have to sit by me," she said quietly. He looked at her, but she looked down shyly. "I don't mind sitting by myself. You don't have to sit by me."

"It wasn't my first choice," Sherlock replied stoically. "I'm trying to avoid John Watson before he starts asking questions while giving me more food poisoning."

"Oh. Is that why you weren't at school yesterday?"

"Yes. I won't go into detail." He put his headphones on after that, eating the lunch his dad prepared, drowning the world out with Panic! at the Disco.

"Okay," was all Molly could manage to say, despite Sherlock not listening, going back to her own lunch, which was a cute little sandwich and crisps. Even her lunch expressed her sweet and adorable nature, which contrasted greatly with punk-rocker Sherlock Holmes sitting right next to her.

She heard the faint sound of Sherlock's music, recognizing the song. She wanted to tell him that she knew it, but was too shy to talk to him. He seemed agitated and wasn't feeling well yesterday, so she felt like bothering him would not be a good thing. She wished she had a bit more confidence than she did.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen: Possibly Not Friends**

Sherlock knew he would have to confront John at some point. For now, he hoped, that he'd have a little time beforehand to not worry about it. Yet somehow John always found his way back to Sherlock, or vice versa. On John's part, it was mere coincidence, but sometimes Sherlock would purposefully find John to keep an eye on him. And if keeping an eye on him meant following him and staring at him from a distance,that's what Sherlock was willing to do.

John and Sherlock didn't speak for a few days after Sherlock threw up at the dance studio. John assumed he was angry with him or was just bored with him. That was, until, he noticed that Sherlock was practically stalking him. He noticed the following and the staring. He didn't know what had happened to Sherlock to make him act that way.

Finally, after four days, John confronted Sherlock before school. He found him out back, listening to music, eyes shut. He wasn't smoking like last time. John sat next to him on the ground, then tapped Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock didn't move.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock's eyes were closed, so John thought maybe he was asleep. He shook Sherlock, who fell over, but jolted and panicked as he quickly stood up. He saw John and glared, taking off his headphones.

"Can I help you?" he seethed.

"Yeah, you can," John replied, offended. "Why have you been avoiding me for the past few days?"

"As if it isn't obvious to you?"

"No, Sherlock, it isn't. And it's pretty rude that you don't talk to me about it. You wanted to be my friend. Why don't you act like it for once, dammit?" Sherlock turned quickly to pick up his backpack, trying to escape, but John continued to rant. "Following me around and watching me isn't exactly being there for me, either. You're making me think that you don't want to be my friend after all-"

"You and Sarah aren't dating anymore, are you?"

John froze. Of course Sherlock would know. He had probably seen John sitting with just Mike, no Sarah around his arm or next to him. It was true, he and Sarah had broken up. It was mutual between them, since they truly didn't have much in common, and although they had sex already, it just didn't work. Still, John was a bit angry. He had dated her for over a year, and he took the split a little harder than he should have.

"Yeah," he sighed. "We broke up. It's fine. That doesn't change anything, I'm still mad at you."

"Well what do you want me to do?" Sherlock asked.

"I want you to talk to me. Something's bothering you, and I want to help."

Sherlock huffed, sinking back onto the ground, back against the wall. As John sat next to him, he began talking.

"I had food poisoning from the last lunch you gave me."

"You serious? That's why you weren't at school...that's what you're mad about?"

"You forced me to down food that I detested. I didn't even have to ask. And don't say you didn't make me eat it because you would've forced it down my throat."

"Sherlock, I...I'm sorry. You never told me what food you liked. It wasn't easy."

"Oh, so now it's my fault."

"Sherlock, I was only trying to help. That's what friends do, they help each other out."

"I didn't ask for it."

"Doesn't matter. You never have to ask for help. I'll help you no matter what. And you have to do your part, too. Stalking me isn't helpful..." Sherlock couldn't look John in the eye. Then John asked him, "Sherlock, are you...are you afraid of me?"

Sherlock quickly got up from the ground, taking his backpack and quickly making his way inside before John could try and talk to him more on the matter.

John wasn't sure of a lot of things about Sherlock, but he knew one thing: Sherlock never had any real friends. He was antisocial and detested human interaction. He was introverted in every way, except when he made it clear that he was too smart for a class. He loved impressing people, but still he had a fear of judgement, a fear of getting hurt. He wouldn't talk to anyone about it, not even John.

John sighed, standing up and walking into the school. He went to lunch alone, sitting by Mike, seeing Sherlock from the far end of the cafeteria with Molly Hooper again. Maybe he and Sherlock weren't friends after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hello again! Short chapter, sorry, but there are longer ones. <strong>

**Anyway, I had to change the rating of the story because some people became very disturbed. So, to protect the innocent, the rating has been changed from T to M due to content. Forgive me, I'm not going to be as graphic as I could with this. **

**Aside from that, feedback is always appreciated. Thanks and happy reading! **

**CWM**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen: The Snapping Point**

John had never been beaten up or bullied in his entire life, at least not to his knowledge. He hated the fact that his own team was the cause of many students' misfortunes, whether it be name calling or throwing books or even beating to a pulp. John saw it all the time, but did nothing about it, which he regretted. He should've done something about it. Of course, he did something about Sherlock getting beaten up, but no one else seemed unimportant to him. That day, however, would be when the tables turned.

Sherlock was once again getting beat up. The entire rugby team began following him around, throwing pens at him and mocking him, asking to see his ballet tutu and tiara. Sherlock tried to get away from them, cutting corners and moving past others in the halls, but they always found him. Rage burned within him, his blood boiling. He hated it all and wanted it all to end so badly that he thought he might cry or throw up.

He made it into the back of the school, not followed by any of them. He sighed in relief, feeling his limbs tremble with anxiety. He leaned against the brick wall, trying to breathe, to calm his nerves. He groaned exasperatedly when he noticed John coming by.

"Oh," he muttered, "you again. When are you going to stop finding me? The rugby bastards will find me again because of you."

John huffed. He hated how Sherlock refused to let him help. Still, he hated the rugby team more for beating him up.

"Come on," he said. "I'll get you to my car. They won't find us, I promise. Let me help you."

Just as John began leading Sherlock to his car, a rugby player was spotted, and soon enough the whole swarm of them came.

"Look at that, Watson," one of them said, "you found our little dancer!"

John looked over to Sherlock, whose head was downcast in shame. The rugby team was laughing.

"Stop it," John demanded. "Stop laughing. It's not funny anymore."

A low yet mocking "ooh" came over them. They still chuckled.

"Come on, Watson," said a shorter one, "don't be a faggot."

"A what?"

"You heard me."

"Stop it!"

"Make me!"

John's fist was tightly clenched. He quickly lunged forward, almost striking the rugby player in the face. The rest of them backed up, but John froze. Was this what he was becoming? Would what he said, what he did, really change these guys' minds? After all, he did it once, and the rugby team still tortured Sherlock. Now John wasn't sure what to do. That's the problem with bullying - it takes a lot to change someone, and no adult can truly stop the bullying.

John huffed, bringing his fist down, but not unclenching it. His blood was boiling now, his teeth grinding. He was fed up at this point, with the rugby team, with his recent breakup, and with Sherlock's ignorance. It could've sent him on edge if he didn't mentally count to ten. However, by the time he got to ten, he was shoved to the ground, called a "fucking pussy" and plenty of other vulgar things. And before he could get up and strike one of them, Sherlock had climbed up on top of another and began pulling at his hair from on top of his back.

"Ow! Ow! What the fuck?!" Sherlock was practically riding this guy like a horse!

"How dare you?" he growled at them. "Hurt me all you want, but you _don't_ hurt your teammate!"

Somehow, it didn't matter what Sherlock had said. Some other boys grabbed John and threw him to the ground regardless, which made Sherlock ride the boy harder, kicking his sides and avoiding getting grabbed by other boys.

"Don't just stand there! Get him offa me!" Some other boys tried to go near them, but Sherlock hissed, even biting one of their hands, sending him to his knees.

"He's a bloody _psycho!_" the boy with the bitten hand shouted as the other boy Sherlock was riding fell backward, his fall broken by the skinny boy, who finally gave in and let go.

"Let's get outta here," he said, "before he tries to kill us!" The rugby team, with the exception of John, ran off, but not without muttering things like, "No wonder he was kicked to of school." "I think my hand is infected." "Those two are crazy. Why does John stand up for that guy?"

John sat up. He knew he'd been bullied, the name calling and the shoving. Still, it was nothing compared to what Sherlock had gone through. Speaking of, he looked over to the thin boy, who had curled up on the ground, probably badly injured from the fall. John stood up and walked over to him, squatting down to help.

"Can you move?" he asked softly. Sherlock flinched when he touched him, although he clearly could see it was John. John sighed sadly. "I don't want you to be afraid of me, Sherlock."

"I'm not..." John looked over at Sherlock, who was slowly getting up. "I'm not afraid of you...I'm afraid that...you'll be afraid of me."

"Me? Afraid of _you_? Just because you dress like a Sex Pistol doesn't mean that I'm intimidated by you. You're...I told you, you're brilliant. You're intelligent, and no one should be hurting you. Ever. I know you're not afraid to be different, but some people don't realize that...what makes you different is what makes you absolutely amazing."

Sherlock's eyes were wide. He kept his head down, not even able to look at John. He would try and glance up at him, but it was difficult. He stood up, brushing himself off like riding a large rugby player like a horse jockey and falling onto the ground was nothing. He held out his arm to John, who gladly took it and stood up next to him. Still, Sherlock refused to look him in the eye. John quickly figured out why when Sherlock began speaking again.

"The world is cruel...why did it have to be so cruel to me? I mean, I should consider myself so lucky, having a home and parents and a good education, but...all this? Sometimes..." He finally looked up at him. "Sometimes it's not enough to hide it all away."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," was all John could say. He came closer to him, embracing Sherlock's small, thin frame. Sherlock was very uncomfortable in the unexpected hug, but he didn't force his way out of it. No one really hugged him (except his mother), and John's embrace was tight but in a comforting way.

When John let go, he noticed that Sherlock's face was a bit pink and puffy.

"Were you crying?" he asked.

"No!" Sherlock denied. "I just hit my face on the ground."

"Okay...why don't I drive you home, okay? I have an iPod Jack, too, if you wanted to plug in your music or something. You seem agitated."

"Obviously." Sherlock grabbed his bags as well as John's and followed him to the car.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen: The Ride Home**

Sherlock threw all of their stuff into the back seat of John's car.

"I sure hope you washed your car after you infested it with your cum," Sherlock muttered.

"It's fine, Sherlock," said John, "I aired out the car after I took you home last time. It doesn't smell like cum anymore."

"Did you check?"

"Yes, I checked."

"Thoroughly?"

"_Yes!_ Now get in the bloody car!" Sherlock got into the passenger's seat, and then John drove off.

At the start of the drive, the two boys would glance at each other. Soon enough, they were snickering, which turned into full-on laughter.

"I can't believe you rode that guy!" John laughed.

"I know!" Sherlock replied. "It was like riding one of those mechanical bulls, you know?"

"Yeah! And you bit someone's hand, too! What was that?"

"And he was all like, 'Oh, I think it's infected!'"

They were cracking up. John could barely focus on the road he was laughing so hard. Sherlock's chest hurt from all the laughing. It took them a while to actually stop laughing about it.

"We can't laugh about this," John said as he caught his breath.

"Why not?"

"Because we're probably going to get in trouble."

"Why you?"

"I probably will be thrown in the story somewhere...you don't have any ideas on how to get out of trouble, do you?"

"Without punishing the rugby team? Doubt it."

"Go ahead. They deserve punishment."

"Their reign of terror will get worse. It won't matter. Without rugby, they'll have more time to focus on bullying me."

"Why is it so hard for them to just stop?"

"I bet I scared them. Now they won't go near me... They'll try and steer you away, you know. The coach might, too, and everyone around you. Rumors will spread, and if you keep hanging around me, you'll become nothing but prey in this school."

"I don't care. I'm only doing what I think is right. And if that means becoming part of the bottom of the food chain, so be it...besides, what you did today wasn't to scare them. It was for me. Don't pretend like it wasn't, because you said it wasn't fair that I was their own teammate getting hurt." Sherlock didn't respond to him. "Thank you." Still, no response.

Sherlock found the iPod Jack, plugging it in himself and taking out his own iPod to listen to his music. He didn't have the courtesy to ask John what kind of music he liked (well, he did, but he wasn't in the mood to listen to Top 40 or whatever crazy pop music most teenagers listened to). Sherlock was very into punk rock, obviously, as well as some heavy metal and anything that involved loud guitars and screaming in the vocals. He turned on a My Chemical Romance playlist and they listened to that.

John had never heard My Chemical Romance. He didn't even recognize the band name, maybe because they weren't English. When Sherlock was staring out the window, indulged in the song, John picked up his iPod and looked through the playlists and the artists (without changing the music, of course. Sherlock had a multitude of artists, such as Sleeping With Sirens, Panic! at the Disco, Lacuna Coil, Green Day, Mayday Parade, 21 Pilots, even a few songs by the Sex Pistols and plenty more. John had only heard of at least two or three of them. The rest were unfamiliar.

Before John could find any more bands or people he didn't know, Sherlock snatched his iPod back. John just continued to drive after that, realizing that he was actually driving.

"I've never heard of any of these people before," said John, "that are on your iPod. Are they all punk bands?"

"Most of them, yeah. Some are more metal, like Rise Against. But surely you've heard of the Sex Pistols."

"Everybody knows the Sex Pistols. And Green Day. And I think most people know Panic! at the Disco, too."

"And 5 Seconds of Summer."

"You listen to 5 Seconds of Summer?" John laughed. "Aren't they basically just One Direction?"

"No. 5 Seconds of Summer is an Australian punk rock band. One Direction is a bunch of bastards in tight jeans singing the same bloody song over and over."

"Girls listen to 5 Seconds of Summer, Sherlock."

"I'll admit, they're not as punk as I'd like them to be, but their sound is better."

"What do you mean 'not as punk?'"

"Punk music is more poetic than most 5 Seconds of Summer songs. Ed Sheeran is more poetic, too."

"You just listen to all these chick-magnet bands, don't you?"

"It's not my fault that girls appreciate good music."

Sherlock continued to talk to John about the music he liked and the problems that he could deduce about the rugby players. John was interested in it, laughing at the jokes and nodding along. It was almost sad that Sherlock had to go home.

John drove up to the house. He could finally see how large it was in the daylight. It was even gated.

"Wow," he said. "Wouldn't I love to live here?"

Sherlock got out of the car and took his bags and his iPod. "Thanks for dropping me off," he said.

"Hey," said John, "this was fun. We should hang out more often."

"I agree. You're a good listener. It's nice to have an actual person to talk to."

"So I'm basically replacing the thin air you tend to talk to?"

"Don't worry, you're doing a good job so far." John chuckled at that. "Well, see you, I guess."

"Are you going to sit next to me at lunch?"

"How about you sit next to me? I'd hate to leave poor Molly Hooper all by her lonesome again."

"That sounds fair."

"I'll see you." Sherlock opened the gate and began walking across the lawn to his house.

"Hey!" John called again. "You know, if you want to make more friends, you should maybe remind yourself that you're kind of an arsehole."

"Fine, then," Sherlock called back, "I guess I'll _continue_ to be an arsehole!"

John laughed at that as he drove himself back home.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty: Petty Anger**

It had not been the first time Sherlock was sent to a headmaster's office. Sherlock had been sent with bloody noses and bruises as well as pink slips with the teacher's comments on his smart-arse behavior. In some years, he spent most of his time in headmasters' offices instead of in his classes, so today it was no surprise to him. It was interesting that it took at least five weeks of being at that secondary school that he would finally be asked to come down.

No, it wasn't about the fight he had made with the rugby players where he rode them and bit them. No, it was not about sassing off a teacher. It was, in fact, about how the rugby team was treating him, which, again, was no surprise. The headmaster, however, sent him to talk to Mr. Lestrade, the guidance counselor, since the students' personal issues were his division.

"Your mother called in a few days ago," Mr. Lestrade began when Sherlock stepped into his office, "complaining that you show up with bruises on your face almost every day." Sherlock said nothing about it, just shrugged and sat down. "Sherlock, you're new here. Nobody wants you to be uncomfortable already. We want you to feel safe here."

"Well, you're not doing a very good job," Sherlock muttered.

"You mind telling me what's going on? I won't tell anyone."

"Except the headmaster. And probably the rugby coach."

"Why the rugby coach?"

"It's bloody obvious why. His entire team has literally started to come looking for me just to torment and mock me."

"Do they hit you, too?" Sherlock nodded. "Sherlock, why didn't you tell anyone?"

"It's not anyone's business, that's why! And nobody, literally, no one from the school administration has seen any of it or done anything to help me!"

"Okay, calm down...if we knew this had been going on-"

"Yeah, if you knew. Some people do know, even teachers. They don't care. Does anyone at this school actually care for me?"

"Yes, Sherlock, some people do. Like your friend, John Watson. We talked to him a couple days ago. He's on the rugby team. He told us that you'd been having a hard time."

"He's an exception to everything. He actually helped me, unlike the bloody administration. They did _shit_ to help me-"

"_Hey! _Watch the language. Look, Sherlock, it's not like we can ignore it. I won't tell anyone that you're getting hurt, but I will have to explain to the rugby coach that the team needs to realize that they're not all kings of the school and can mess with everyone. Even our prefects know better."

Sherlock nodded. He left the office quite angry, but he didn't know why. He was probably pissed at the school administration for learning about this four weeks in instead of automatically. Or maybe he was mad at John for telling Mr. Lestrade anything about the bullying situation. He became super pissed when he saw a couple of students eavesdropping on Sherlock, probably expecting him to be in massive trouble. He quickly walked past them, anger surging. Nobody else was in the hallway, so he threw his book bag against a locker, the thunder of the crash echoing through the vacant hallway. A couple of teachers looked out to see where it had come from, but Sherlock had exited the hallway and went to the back of the school. He listened to some music as he smoked a cigarette, skipping his Literature class.

* * *

><p>"Something the matter, pretty bird?" Jim asked softly that afternoon into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock hated how Jim could read him like a book, but then again he did look a bit distraught when he looked at his face in the mirror. He also hated when he called him by a pet name, especially one so stupid as "pretty bird."<p>

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered, trying to focus on the class. As he lifted himself onto his toes, he stumbled. He was off-focus and he felt more vulnerable to Jim now.

Before Sherlock fell to the floor, however, Jim caught him. His hands wrapped near his hips, gently yet too seductive to be unintentional. The dance instructor called it a "graceful improvisation," while Sherlock called it an "intended intrusion." When Sherlock turned toward Jim, the older boy was looking him in the eyes. Jim's eyes were chocolate brown, so brown you could barely see the pupils. He gave Sherlock a light grin as he helped him back up. Sherlock grimaced, moving away from Jim as they continued to dance.

After class, Jim came up to Sherlock yet again. He held up a familiar object in his hand, and Sherlock quickly reached for it. Jim pulled it back, beginning to type into it.

"Give me my phone, Jim!" Sherlock demanded, reaching for it again and trying to pry it from Jim's hands. Jim pushed him away before returning his phone.

"So possessive, little bird," Jim chuckled. "Don't worry your curly head. I just gave you my number. If you're ever need me, just call me up. Alright?"

Sherlock was very confused and almost disgusted by his offer. He walked away quickly without saying a word. He didn't want to talk to Jim, not after the incident in the stall. Calling him would practically be asking for sex. And yet he couldn't find himself to delete the devil's number. And he couldn't find himself seeing Jim as a devil, either. Truly, there were more dangerous and insane people out there. He knew that Jim probably knew better than to take advantage of Sherlock. After all, if Jim knew anything about Sherlock, it's that he was fragile.

Much, _much_ too fragile...


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One: Flirting**

John Watson was charismatic. For a while, he never considered himself that way, not until girls at school began to fancy him. That was how he ended up dating Sarah, after all. Now that they were not together, word spread that good-boy athlete John Watson - that's right; cute rugby captain John Watson, the one with the sandy-blond hair and beautiful blue eyes, round cheeks and a sweet smile, a bit shy in conversations but would never degrade you - was unattached, and suddenly the courting began.

John noticed a lot of them - the smiles, the batted eyelashes, the cute waves in the hallway along with a small and polite "hello" or "hey" or even "hi John." John would wave back and smile, to which some would giggle or look away quickly. Gathering all the attention made him realize why he liked flirting with girls, making them giddy with everything he said and did.

The thought of using his "power" to possibly find someone for his still-single friend, Sherlock, had crossed his mind a couple of times. That was, until, he found out Sherlock had another love affair going on. Or so he assumed.

Sherlock had been getting text message after text message. He knew who they were coming from and tried his hardest not to look at them. He didn't reply to any, of course, but he looked. All of them read innocent messages, at least to the naked eye.

"Hey babe," they read. "Are you doing okay today? Or are you still miffed at the world like always?" "Babe?" "Don't be like that babe." "You're cute when you're angry."

Sherlock ignored all of them. He should've deleted his number already, but a part of him couldn't bring himself to do it, and he didn't know why.

Sherlock brought his phone to lunch. He left it on the table as he ate, and it inevitably vibrated. It caught the attention of John and Molly, who now sat with them.

"Who's texting you?" John asked. "A girlfriend?"

"No," Sherlock answered too quickly. "It's probably just an email or some shit. Ignore it."

The phone buzzed again. Sherlock quickly picked it up and read the texts. "You haven't smiled at all since you came back to practice." "I miss your smile ;)." Sherlock groaned.

"What does it say?" Molly asked quietly.

"None of your business," Sherlock replied coldly.

John looked over to see. Sherlock tried to move his phone away, but John ended up tabbing it and looking.

"Hey! My personal business!" Sherlock exclaimed angrily.

"Who's Jim?" John asked, curious. He read most of the texts, raising his eyebrows at some of them. Sherlock snatched his phone back before he could see more.

"Nobody."

"Doesn't seem like nobody. He calls you 'babe...' Wait a minute...are you...? Um..."

"Am I what, John?"

"You know..._gay?_" Sherlock didn't respond to that. "It's fine, by the way. It doesn't change anything between us. I didn't assume-"

"I know it's fine," Sherlock responded. "Let me ask you why it matters."

"It doesn't. I'm sorry...but seriously, who's Jim? He seems into you. All this time, I've been trying to find you a date of some sort, but it seems you've got it covered -"

"Jim is none of your concern, John. He simply wants more than I want to give him. And if he was into me, it's not mutual. That's all I have to say on it."

"If he's bothering you," Molly asked, "why don't you block his number?"

"That's rude of me," Sherlock answered, lying through his teeth, the best answer he could come up with that made sense.

"Oh. Okay."

"Should I set you up with a girl here then, Sherlock?" John asked.

"It's a kind offer, but I'm not interested in dating right now, so no thank you. You can have all the girls to yourself for now."

"Alright...thank you, I guess."

Molly looked away from them, quietly eating the rest of her lunch, fiddling with her ponytail. She focused on the words "right now," which gave her a bit of hope. She tried to tell herself to steer clear of boys like Sherlock, because she felt like, even if they did date, he would be a bit of a jerk to her. She didn't deserve Sherlock Holmes, she told herself, but he might change his mind.

Sherlock texted Jim later, saying, "Why are you doing this?" Jim's answer was, "I love to watch you dance."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Donovan and Anderson**

"Hey, freak."

After Sherlock's meeting with Mr. Lestrade about the bullying situation, the rugby team was practically nonexistent in his life. He felt a bit of relief when he figured it out, now free to open his mouth and not expect a beating. However, like he assumed, no one really changes. The names and the teasing continued, but that never bothered him.

That was, until the rugby team wasn't the only group of people insulting him. There were other people, too, like some prefects or any student who took an AP class with him.

There was also Sally Donovan. She was a prefect and the only girl who ever thought about teasing Sherlock Holmes. She had dark skin and the curliest hair, curlier than Sherlock's. She always had an opportunity to, since Sherlock was always taken to Mr. Lestrade's office during his free period, which was around the time she was assisting in the headmaster's office. She never called him by his actual name or any other cruel, teasing nickname; she simply called him "freak," which wasn't a new one on Sherlock's part but was still quite irritating.

"Hey, freak," Sally greeted as usual, staring the tall boy down, waiting for him to react. He always ignored her, no matter how loud she said it or how many times she repeated it. He adjusted the strap of his bag to his shoulder and continued on his way into the office.

"Are you deaf?" Sally asked. "I'm calling for you, and you never respond. You're quite rude. I'd like to ask you a question."

That time, Sherlock did turn around. He looked her in the eye and walked right up to her. Sally grinned, wanting to see his reaction.

"If you want to call me," he said calmly, "then why don't you use my actual name? You know it, and I'll respond to it. Seems to me that you're the one who's 'quite rude.'" Sherlock looked her up and down, noticing the knees of her jeans and sensing a familiar yet unusual smell that she had about her.

"You know who I'm talking to, so you should respond."

"You wanted to ask me something?"

"Yeah. You're friends with John Watson, right?"

"He's a colleague."

"Sure. First if all, how do _you_ get a colleague?"

"Does that matter? You obviously don't care about that. What's the real question?"

"My friend, Helen. She wants to go out with him. Will he?"

"If she wanted to go out with him, why doesn't she ask herself?"

"She's shy like that."

"I don't understand why there's so much hype about John. He's short as well as short-tempered, and he's way too predictable. And he talks too much and he's really nosy. What do girls see in him?"

"A cute, blond athlete with big blue eyes and a kind heart. He's a humble and sweet guy, wouldn't take advantage of you. Maybe you can learn a few tips on how to be nice to people from him, freak, instead of...whatever you are."

Sherlock scoffed. "Yeah, right... Tell this 'Helen' that if John is so great then she should ask him herself. If she waits long enough, some other girl will take him."

"Thank you."

With that, Sherlock left into Lestrade's office, unsure if her gratitude was genuine.

* * *

><p>It was in a Maths class that Sherlock recognized the scent that he had smelled on Sally Donovan.<p>

There was a kid who sat next to him named Anderson. He didn't remember his first name, and everybody called him Anderson, so that's what Sherlock knew him by. Anderson was fairly smart yet he tried too hard sometimes and had some unethical solutions to problems that the professor wrote on the board. Those were the moments where Sherlock would outsmart him, and it was always entertaining to the class when it happened. Anderson, on the other hand, was irritated by it, almost jealous that Sherlock, who was a year younger than everyone else in the class, would be somehow smarter than him.

As Anderson sat in his desk with a loud sigh, the scent vaporized. It was a strong scent, too, and it made Sherlock cough a bit. He almost covered his nose, but when he recognized it, he looked to Anderson, staring him up and down.

Anderson noticed him staring and grimaced, shooing him away as if to say "pay attention." Still, Sherlock leaned closer, sniffing him like a dog.

"What are you doing?" Anderson hissed. "You weirdo! What's wrong with you?"

"Your deodorant," Sherlock replied. "Tell me, is your girlfriend away for long?"

"Don't tell me you worked that out," Anderson scowled. "Someone told you."

"Your deodorant told me."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men."

"Well of _course_ it's for men! I'm wearing it!"

"So is Sally Donovan."

"So you just sniff everybody? Is that it? Just to prove something? Whatever you're implying-"

"I'm not implying anything. I just assumed that Sally visited you recently...you had a nice chat, maybe...studied a bit-"

"Stop it."

"And I assume she scrubbed your floors," he whispered to Anderson, "going by the state of her knees."

Anderson's eyes widened. Then he glared at Sherlock. "You're psychotic," Anderson said, "absolutely psychotic."

"Stop talking now."

"What?"

"You're annoying me."

"I cannot _believe_ you! Does it even occur to you that you're annoying people as well? Or does everything go over your head? You can't be a smart-arse all the time! No wonder you have no friends."

Sherlock ignored Anderson, or at least tried to. He felt a pang in his chest after Anderson said those things. Anderson was an idiot. _Everyone_ was an idiot. They didn't know Sherlock at all, and they never would. If they ever did find out, prod and discover all his weaknesses and secrets, he'd want to kill himself. He had no trouble doing it to other people, but at least he was more discreet about it.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hello again! I hope you all are enjoying the fan fiction so far. I just wanted to make a note to thank everybody who's reading and leaving reviews for their ongoing support. Feedback is really appreciated. I am truly interested in what people have to say, and lately I've had plenty of oppositions to my story. It doesn't bother me at all, because it's my story and I like it. <strong>

**That's all I really had to say on the matter. Once again, feedback is always appreciated. Thanks and happy reading! **

**CWM**


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Ditching Part 1**

Sherlock became weary. School was getting more tedious, ballet was getting more difficult, and he was falling under a routine. He hated it. And it was more bothersome that he wasn't smoking, since somebody - more or less his mother - found his pack of cigarettes in his backpack and confiscated that and his lighter. The idea of it all chewed him to the bone. He began biting his fingernails until there was nothing to chew, then kept chewing no matter how much it hurt. He would stay up nights, sometimes falling asleep ten minutes before his alarm would go off. It almost got so bad that he would find himself falling asleep in class, but he tried his hardest not to nod off. There was no escape from the ordinary routine of an average life.

That was when he had an amazing idea. Well, it wasn't an amazing idea, but it was a better idea than staying in school.

_Ditching._

Sherlock thought of the idea when he went to the back of the school and sat there, staring blankly into the horizon as John found him and sat next to him.

John noticed it. He noticed the dark circles around Sherlock's eyes and how he was slightly unkempt, like he just rolled out of bed and put some clothes on.

"Are you okay?" John asked. "You don't look well."

Sherlock looked at him, but didn't respond verbally. He sighed instead, letting the morning autumn chill settle in. His breath was visible, reminding him of the fact that he couldn't smoke.

"My mum's making me go cold turkey," Sherlock replied wearily. "I can't take it." He itched at his arm.

"Don't do this to yourself, Sherlock," said John. "Your mother's only looking out for you."

"Well, I'm in desperate need for a smoke." He groaned. "It's driving me insane. You don't understand. It's a bad addiction."

"You're not an addict, Sherlock. You're just impatient. Why don't you occupy yourself with something else?"

With that, Sherlock came up with the idea. Still, if he was going to do it now, he wasn't going to do it alone. John Watson was stressed as well, most likely due to school and the pressure that everyone seems to build on him. It would be a great way for him to loosen up.

"You wanna just ditch school today?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly.

John scoffed at that. "I wish. I mean, I'd love to, but I know better. I've never ditched in my entire-"

"Great. Let's go." Sherlock stood up, strapping his backpack on.

"What?"

"Yeah, let's just do it now. Or not now... Ah! You ask to use the loo near the end of first period, and I'll meet you there. We can sneak out the window and get in your car and ditch. How's that sound?"

"It...it's well thought-out, but...Sherlock, I can't just ditch school. I've never ditched school."

"Doesn't mean you can't."

"Doesn't mean I _should_, either. Why do you want to do this anyway?"

"Because I'm bored!" Sherlock whined. "I'm so done with school and it's tedious routine. I want to have fun! Why don't you wanna have fun?" He continued to whine and groan, bouncing on the balls of his feet and being an absolute drama queen.

"I...Sherlock, I - okay! Okay." John gave in with a sigh. "Okay, I'll ditch with you. Just promise me that we won't get into a lot of trouble because of it."

"Please, we won't get in trouble. I've ditched before. It's easy!"

"A-alright then."

"Loosen up, though. Don't be so tense about it. It'll be fun, I promise." With that, Sherlock left into the school with John following behind.

* * *

><p>Somehow, the plan followed through. John was lucky to be in a class where the professor was more lenient on letting students use the lavatories. He was also lucky to have a class on the first floor, so sneaking out the window wouldn't be as hard.<p>

As he exited the classroom, he grabbed his backpack, stuffing it with any book he might need later, then headed to the lavatories, where Sherlock was, having already opened the window and thrown his backpack out the window.

"Hand me your bag," Sherlock said quickly, holding out his arms. John gave him his bag, which Sherlock didn't find surprisingly heavy. He chuckled at the weight of it, actually. "You too, huh? You know, for a rugby player and a punk rebel, we're a pair of nerds." He threw John's backpack out the window. "Come on, then, John. The game is on!" Sherlock began climbing out the window.

"The game? What game?" John looked out the window to see a tuft of curly hair poking out.

"Just come!" Sherlock called.

John made his way to the window, slowly making his way down instead of being as graceful and quick as Sherlock. Still, he made it out injury-free, grabbing his backpack from the ground.

Sherlock tapped John quickly. John turned, hearing a soft "race you" before watching Sherlock running to the car. John ran quickly after him, jealous that Sherlock had longer, faster legs. He also had a head start, and he made it to John's car before John did, slamming his hand on the bonnet of the car.

"Not fair!" John said when he got there, out of breath. Sherlock was also catching his breath, laughing happily. John started chuckling, too, but he didn't know why. John had a lot of nerves, having ditched school. His anxieties rose when he heard the bell ring, but he just laughed harder, unlocking his car.

The boys through their bags into the back seat, John sat in the driver's and Sherlock in the passenger's. John gripped the wheel tightly before starting the car, looking over to see Sherlock plugging in his iPod.

"Where are we going?" John asked, realizing he should've asked that question before he got into the car.

"Just get out of the school lot and I'll direct you from there," was Sherlock's answer.

John took in a deep sigh, starting the car and driving off. He felt like his heart would shoot out of his chest, making small moaning noises as he drove out into the road.

"Stop worrying," Sherlock told him rather coldly. "You'll take the fun out of it. Keep going straight up this road, and I'll tell you when to turn, okay?" John just nodded as Sherlock turned on some music. "Relax, John. Some music will calm your nerves." He proceeded to play some Fall Out Boy.

John continued to drive down the road. He would glance over at Sherlock often, wondering how Sherlock could be so relaxed. He had done it before, like he'd mentioned. But how many times? Given his rebel demeanor, despite his genius intellect and his true desire to be in school to learn, he must've ditched school at least a few times.

He tried to relax, paying attention to the road, letting it distract him for just a moment.

"We're ditching school," he said aloud. Sherlock looked at him and nodded. Then John said it again, louder. "We are _ditching_ school."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "We are ditching school. Relax. Enjoy it for a moment."

That's when John started laughing. He didn't know why he was laughing. Nervous energy? He didn't sound nervous. The worst part was that he couldn't stop laughing.

"We're ditching _school!_" he nearly shouted.

Sherlock was laughing, too, but rather at him than with him. "You're so new to this!" he said amidst his giggling. "You are going to have so much fun, I just know it!"

The song changed after that. It was a song that John knew.

"I know this one!" John said, excited now. Sherlock proceeded to turn the music up louder, and the two of them began singing just as loudly as John found himself driving into town.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Ditching Part 2**

"So, where are we going?" John asked.

Sherlock had John park in a vacant lot, and they began walking down the pavement. They had driven to the inner city, looking like outcasts when they were the only presumable teenagers to be seen. They were currently stopped at a pedestrian crossing.

Sherlock shrugged. "We could go to a lot of places."

"How long do you plan on us being gone?"

"Until...when school ends. Then we'll come back, and it'll be like we never left."

"I'm glad I don't have rugby practice today. If I had, I wouldn't be able to go to practice."

"Yeah, well, that's the problem with school sports right there. Next to the fact that they all think that they rule the school but half of them are actually failing their classes."

"Excluding me, right?"

"Always."

"Right." The boys began walking across the street, then stepped back onto the pavement and continued to walk aimlessly. Still, John had anxiety in the back of his mind. "What if they find out we're gone?"

Sherlock shrugged. "They'll probably assume we went home. Unless you don't get sick often."

"I...well, not really. I mean, I've had a few colds that kept me out of school, but I don't get sick too often... Harry used to pretend she was sick to get out of school. She ditched a couple times, but not me... Do you have a set plan for the day?"

"I'm thinking we get lunch somewhere later this afternoon. But for now we can just walk around, visit some of the shops, mess around. It'll be fun."

"They'll ask us why we're not in school, the shop owners and stuff."

"I have a plan for that."

Sherlock stopped walking for a moment, looking into the window of an antique shop. "Ooh, we could go in here."

"Why here?" John asked. "It's just full of old junk."

"Antique, John," Sherlock replied. "They're almost never truly antique, and I want to prove it true. Come on."

"I don't think that's necessarily 'fun.'" Sherlock froze in his place, genuinely confused. "I get that you're into all this 'proving' and 'observing,' but you said today would be fun. It's not exactly fun to me. It sound quite boring."

"So what's fun to you? Just walking around aimlessly and chatting? That's exhausting."

"Well, did you have any other ideas of what we could possibly do? You didn't plan this out very well." John crossed his arms.

Sherlock huffed, his head downcast. He kicked his feet a little, then sat on the ground in the middle of the pavement and began thinking. John continuously apologized to pedestrians walking by about his friend, not knowing what to do with him.

After a while, John squatted down to Sherlock's level. "You wanna go to a park or something?" John had noticed the park when they were driving down the road. He thought it'd be a fun activity for the both of them. The only problem was that Sherlock had easily become upset by the fact that John didn't like everything he liked, so John literally pulled him up and almost carried him there. Luckily John had more body muscle, and Sherlock was light but not as light as John thought he'd be.

Once they got to the park, John and Sherlock were hanging by the monkey bars. Literally. Sherlock and John hung upside-down, Sherlock by his legs and John by his arms, letting his legs come forward in front of his body.

"Fun," said Sherlock, unamused.

"You could've planned better," John replied, "instead of just ditching school spur of the moment."

"Next time we ditch, I'll plan better. Okay? Besides...we should be in school right now, and we're not."

"Please stop reminding me," John complained.

"You know what this is like? This is like Ferris Buler."

"Ferris Buler?"

"Yeah, except there's no girlfriend. I'm Ferris, the genius mastermind who knows how to get away with all of this, and you're Cameron, the anxious worry-wart who could use some loosening-up."

"_I'm_ Cameron? No, I'm not Cameron."

"Then prove it."

"What?"

"Prove to me you're not Cameron... Okay. There's a woman over there. Green top, white pants?"

"She's like...thirty-something. What do you want me to do?"

"I'm going to steal her purse, and then you're going to pretend to beat me up, then return her purse. Sound fun?"

"Why would I try to impress this thirty-year-old woman?"

"Because she has a daughter...who's around our age."

"You're saying I should impress this woman to have her daughter find me and go out with me?"

"Exactly."

"Okay. Okay. Let's do it." John got down from the monkey bars with Sherlock, and then they snuck up on this woman.

The plan succeeded. Sherlock was able to run quickly and grab the woman's purse. She nearly screamed before John stepped in. John wasn't sure how on earth he was going to pretend to hurt Sherlock, so he ended up shoving him into a trash bin. He got the woman's purse back and handed it to her, to which she thanked him and continued to walk, but not without knowing his name.

When John came back for Sherlock, he held out his hand to help him up. He had a big smile on his face.

"Are you okay?" he asked when Sherlock grabbed his hand and lifted him off the ground.

"Yeah, you didn't shove me that hard," Sherlock replied. "I did most of the falling on my own."

"Wow. You're a good actor, then. Or are you lying to me?"

"I'm not lying... Well, at least I hope you get to meet that daughter."

"Probably not."

Sherlock shrugged. Just then, a man walked by them and shook his head noticeably. The boys were confused as to why. That's when John noticed that they were still holding hands. John quickly let go, apologizing.

"That was...I didn't even notice," said John.

"Neither did I," Sherlock replied. He looked at his phone for the time. "Lunch, then? You like Chinese or what?"

"Chinese sounds great," said John, following Sherlock down the pavement. "You know...you never told me if you were...gay or not."

"What?"

"That one day, with...with that Jim guy who's texting you. I asked you if you were gay, but you never answered."

"Were you serious about that?" Sherlock asked.

"A bit, I suppose. I mean, i won't judge you differently if you are. I'm just curious."

"I'd rather not talk about my sexuality," Sherlock said, "given the fact that I'm not really attracted to anyone. Everyone is stupid and I'm not really the sort of...'intimate' person."

"I see...I wouldn't know how to explain that."

"Me either...the Chinese place is right up here."

So Sherlock and John sat in the Chinese restaurant and ordered some food for themselves. Sherlock was drinking a cola when John started to talk again.

"How many times have you ditched school?" John asked.

"How many do you think?" Sherlock responded.

"Um...I'm guessing five."

"You're close. Three."

"_Only_ three?"

"Well, three times, because I started in secondary school."

"Ah. Too much of a nerd to run out of school during primary?"

"Definitely. One time, actually, was to get my ears pierced."

"Really? How many piercings do you have?"

"Just the six on my ears. I might get a lip piercing, too, if my mum would let me. I've also considered a naval piercing."

"I don't think I could pierce anywhere on my body."

"Such a shame. I could pierce your ears for you. Just some studs. It doesn't hurt."

"Yeah, I'd rather go to a professional."

"But I've pierced my own ears. No infection. It's easy."

"No, Sherlock." John giggled.

The two of them had a long chat over lunch. Sherlock talked about how many instruments he was able to play, and John talked a bit about his flat, how he shared a room with his sister, which led to the topic of both their annoying siblings.

"Should we head back, then?" John asked after a while.

"Sure, I suppose," Sherlock replied. "You got some money to pay? I'm not paying for your food."

"Yeah, of course." The boys both paid, then headed out. "I'd race you, but I don't want to be upchucking all that Chinese."

"Yuck. Good idea..."

As they walked down the pavement, Sherlock would make quick deductions of the people who passed them aloud. Some of them were funny, which made John snicker a bit. John would even point out some people for him to deduce. John could admit that his time with Sherlock that day was fun when they got back into the car, driving back to the school and singing loudly along to Green Day music.

What they were met with back at the school, however, would not be as pleasant as they thought.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Busted**

John and Sherlock rode back in John's car back to the school, just around the time school was ending. Sherlock, of course, not having gone to the school, didn't realize their policies. A sinking feeling came to both of them when they saw police at the school.

"Shit," Sherlock mumbled, feeling uneasy.

"That's not for us, is it?" John asked in concern. When Sherlock didn't answer, sinking down in the passenger's seat, John became very anxious. "Sherlock, why are the police here?"

"How should I know? Drive a bit closer..."

"Yes, drive closer to the police. That's smart! Really?! If they're here for us, I swear to God..."

John rolled slowly nearer, and he saw two pairs of parents. One of them was his. Sherlock and John looked at each other.

"It's for us..." He slammed the steering wheel. "Dammit! Sherlock, you said that we wouldn't get in trouble!"

"We _won't_ get in trouble."

"Our parents are here."

"Oh... Forgive me, John, I didn't-"

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?! This is bloody serious!"

"John, calm down. It might not be that bad. I can fix this-"

"It's too late for fixing this, Sherlock! My parents are going to kill me! Fucking...bloody hell! Fuck! Why didn't you think this through?!"

"John, calm the fuck down!" John was a bit startled by Sherlock yelling, but Sherlock took a deep breath. "Calm down, okay? Let's just...drive up, okay? Whatever happens..." He gulped nervously.

John pulled his car into a spot, and they got out of the car. They grabbed their bags and walked up to them.

"Just be cool," was the last thing Sherlock said to him before they were approached.

John's father was definitely pissed rather than relieved, like his mother and Sherlock's parents. Sherlock's mother actually moved quickly towards him and embraced him tightly.

"Oh, my sweet boy," she sighed, "you're okay."

"Of course I'm okay, mum," Sherlock replied, assuring his mother. He could feel her unsteady heartbeat against his chest, and he sighed. "I'm okay, mum. Don't worry yourself."

"Well, don't scare me like that! Don't go running off like that! The school thought you boys were missing! My goodness, I was about to hop into one of those police cars and find you myself!"

"I'm alright, mum," Sherlock said again. "It's alright. I'm here. I won't scare you anymore...okay?"

"You better not." She caressed his hair, then his cheek.

John thought that it was sweet. He sighed, smiling. He thought that Sherlock's family might be stricter than that, but the truth was that they'd be more worried than pissed. That, of course, did not change his own parents' attitudes.

John felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, then looked up fearfully at his father.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?" Dr. Watson began, shaking John. "Leaving school? They had no idea where you were and called us! Said you were missing! You ought to give me a good reason why or, so help me, I will-"

"It's fine, Dad," John said quickly. "Nothing bad happened, I just-"

"What's gotten into you lately? Making excuses- _Look_ at me, John, when I'm talking to you! Don't lie to me."

"James, don't shout," John's mother tried to coax. "They're staring."

Dr. Watson looked over at the other family, then made an assumption. "It's him, isn't it? He's the reason you're acting this way?"

"Dad, that's-"

"John, you can't just do things like this because people tell you to. It's not good for you."

"Dad-"

"Dr. Watson?" John and his dad turned to Sherlock, who flinched when he turned so quickly, so angrily. "Dr. Watson, don't be mad at John. It was my fault. I was the one who asked him to come with me. I didn't realize..."

"Didn't realize that staying in school is important, hm?" Dr. Watson responded. John heard a gasp, most likely from Sherlock's mother. Sherlock didn't react, continually looking Dr. Watson in the eye. This scared John a bit. Even John couldn't look his dad in the eye if he responded like that. "It's probably why you were taken out of your last school."

"Dr. Watson," Sherlock said, "I would suggest not making rash assumptions about people's personal lives, especially those that you don't know about and would have little understanding of." Dr. Watson was appalled. Sherlock turned to John. "I'm sorry I dragged you into this. I shouldn't have. I didn't know you'd get in trouble."

"It wasn't entirely your fault, Sherlock," John replied softly. "I went with you. I have some blame." John stiffened, ready for any punishment he might receive.

Mrs. Watson seemed accepting of Sherlock's apology, but Dr. Watson was indifferent. He felt insulted by Sherlock, assuming he was just called "stupid" by a rebellious teenager. He grabbed John tightly and began to leave with him. John looked back at Sherlock before they left. He wasn't the best at deducing, but John knew guilt in someone's eyes when he saw some. He definitely saw it in Sherlock's eyes, even back in the car. His words echoed in his head:

"_Forgive me._"

Sherlock stood there. He felt his heart pounding in his chest. He hated Dr. Watson for what he said, how he didn't care and even mentioning being taken out of school. He knew nothing. Sherlock's mother came over and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. He sighed, contented by his mother's presence. Sherlock's father led them back to the car, and they drove home silently.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hello again! I hope you're enjoying the story so far. And I have some good news. Due to the great content I have to go through in this story, there are going to be more chapters than I anticipated. I'm still writing the story, yes, and I have yet to introduce Irene Adler, more Mycroft, more on the Wastons and even John's blog. I'm already past thirty chapters, and I might have to delay some chapters and not post everyday to get everything written. I have a feeling that it might end up being over a hundred chapters! That's not too long, right? <strong>

**Anyways, as always, feedback is always appreciated. Thanks and happy reading!**

**CWM**


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six: 2 am Texting**

Hey JW

You still have your phone. I guess you're not in as much trouble as you thought. SH

Yah thank God JW

I had a lot of fun today JW

We should do it again sometime JW

Just not during school tho lol JW

Okay. SH

My dad doesn't want me to hang out w/ u anymore he says ur a bad influence JW

Oh. SH

Idc I don't think ur a bad influence u r awesome and I have a good time w/ u my dad can't stop me. JW

Rebellious of you. SH

I'm sorry he yelled at u today JW

It's okay. He didn't know better. SH

No offense, but your dad is quite rude. SH

Yah I know. Ur parents r nicer tho JW

My parents are just concerned for my safety. They worry. SH

Yah well my dad isn't as concerned for me as he is for my behaviour JW

Btw wat r u doing up at 2 am? JW

What are you doing up? SH

Can't sleep I'm too angry u? JW

Can't sleep either. I don't know why. I'm probably developing insomnia above other things. SH

R u serious? JW

I don't know. SH

Y don't u use txt lingo? JW

I type like a normal person. Your lack of punctuation and actual words disturbs me greatly. SH

Lol u txt lyk u just discovered mobiles JW

Or maybe I'm just too smart to use text lingo. SH

It's easier 2 type this way JW

I type quickly. SH

Ok then we should get some sleep goodnight JW

Goodnight. SH


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Tension**

John saw Sherlock at school the next day. Both of them were hesitant around each other. They didn't talk throughout the entire day, not even at lunch. John felt bad that he wasn't talking to Sherlock, but maybe now that John's dad wasn't approving of Sherlock, there was way more tension than there should've been.

John was told throughout the day that everyone thought he'd gone missing. John was just glad that they didn't get into too much trouble, especially with the police. Nobody seemed as worried about Sherlock, though. His name went unmentioned, even. Sherlock wasn't popular at all, but rather infamous instead. God only knows that he would get in more trouble than John.

It wasn't until near the end of the day that they actually ran into each other. Well, it wasn't exactly coincidental. John was talking up a girl that had begun flirting with him a while back. Plenty of envious girls walked by, but John barely noticed.

"Of all people," she was saying, "I can't believe you would do such a brave thing. That woman must've been so thankful for her purse."

John shrugged, grinning. "It was the right thing to do. I wasn't going to let that hoodlum get away with it."

"You actually did that?"

"You don't believe me? I wouldn't lie to you. I happened to be there. If I'd seen it happen from where the park was, I'd probably be too late to stop him."

"What if he was armed? What if you got hurt?"

"You think I was afraid of that guy? No. I don't get scared that easily." When he had said that, however, he felt like someone was behind him, and when he turned around, he was being looked over by none other than his taller friend. He jumped back with a yelp, which made the girl he was talking to laugh. John blushed red. "I meant to do that," he said.

"You're funny, John," she said. "I like that about you...I should be getting home, then. I'll see you?"

"Yeah, see you, Helen."

As the girl left, John took a deep breath. Sherlock was still right behind him.

"Was that really necessary?" John asked.

"So I'm a hoodlum now, am I?"

"It's part of the story."

"She's a bit homely for you, isn't she?" was Sherlock's response.

"I don't date girls based on their looks, Sherlock."

"Yes you do. Everybody does. First, there's looks, then their friends, then their personality, then interests. Looks count, John, for something, or else you wouldn't be attracted to her."

"So what makes her homely?"

"Her nose."

"Whatever. She's a nice girl. She approached me first, unlike all the other girls at this school. I like when a girl makes the first move...In fact, I might be so antisocial that I prefer anyone to make the first move."

"Like I did?"

"Like you did? Sherlock, when we met, I was the one who started talking to you. You wanted nothing to do with me!"

"I meant today."

"That wasn't the first move. That was downright creepy. You all lurking over me like you're stalking prey. You really need to set some boundaries."

"It's not my fault you're shorter than me."

John laughed at that sarcastically. "That's not funny."

"Are you angry with me?"

"A bit annoyed, yes..." Then John realized what he meant. "But I'm not angry with you. I told you, yesterday was fun. I enjoyed it. It was fun, except for the whole police situation."

"Sorry, again."

"You don't have to be sorry anymore. I forgave you a long time ago. It's okay, Sherlock."

"So why didn't you talk to me?"

"You seemed a bit tense. My dad's making things tense, with this whole mess. I just...he's rude, but not like how you are rude. I actually would like to see you guys have an argument."

"Your dad makes rash comments. I think I'd win, unless he got too personal. Then again, I know a lot about him."

"You don't have to tell me. He's my dad. I'm pretty sure I know everything."

"You probably do. And if you don't, you'll figure it out eventually."

John nodded at that. "Well, I have to get to practice."

"So do I," Sherlock replied.

"I'll text you later, okay?"

"Alright. See you later."

...

John was glad he could get the tension from Sherlock off of his shoulders. Now it was his dad that he had to worry about.

Dr. Watson held a lot of grudges. If he was angry with someone or something, he'd be angry with that for days at a time. He had been angry at some family members before, like his siblings or even his parents, but never his wife or children. John thought he'd be angry with Harry after coming forth with her sexuality, but instead he tried to act like it was normal.

Now Dr. Watson was definitely angry with John. He refused to talk to him since yesterday. When he came home that day, he greeted his wife and Harry as usual, but not John. John had seen his dad disown people and cut people out of his life. He didn't want that to happen to him, too.

Later that evening, his dad was doing some work on his laptop while watching the rugby match on the sofa. John came out slowly from his bedroom and sat on the sofa with him. Dr. Watson barely took notice. John swallowed a couple times and took a deep breath before beginning to speak.

"Dad?" he began. "I'm sorry about what happened yesterday." When there was no response, he continued. "I just...I know it was a bad idea, but we didn't do anything crazy. We did act out a theft, though, which was funny..." John grinned slightly, but there was still no response. "Please talk to me," John said quietly. "I skipped one day. I don't want to be disowned forever because of one mistake I made." John's voice cracked. "I don't want to be cut out..."

That was when Dr. Watson looked. John was now afraid of what he'd say if he started crying. John felt like crying. His dad had made him feel like a failure and a disgrace; the perfect child that makes no mistakes had just made one, and suddenly he wasn't perfect anymore.

"Work has been stressful, John," was how Dr. Watson began. "These past two years have been difficult, with me and your mum switching from job to bloody job, with Harry at Uni, and you doing rugby. What I do, I do for this entire family. And then I get a phone call that you're missing? I was about to lose it."

"I'm sorry," said John. "It won't happen again..."

"I thought you and your friend had gotten yourselves into a lot of trouble...but skipping school for no reason? Really, John? That's not like you."

"I know..."

"But I'm not disowning you. I'm not angry with you, John...I'm just stressed. You'll understand when you're a parent."

John nodded. "I just thought you hated me."

"John, no, I don't hate you. I'm sorry about that. I was a bit harsh on you...and for a moment I thought you were doing drugs with that Sherlock guy you hang out with."

"Nah, Sherlock and I weren't doing drugs. Our backpacks were stuffed with all our books! We had to make sure we had no homework. We're a bunch of nerds."

Dr. Watson chuckled a bit. "Really?"

"Yeah. I was petrified, believe me."

"Yeah. Don't let it happen again, okay?"

"I won't, Dad. I promise."


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Medication**

Despite the school's lack of concern for Sherlock on his own, students had a knack for starting the strangest rumors about him. There were plenty of people who believed these rumors, but there were others who weren't so convinced, like John. Every time John heard a rumor, he would deny every single one.

That was around the time the drug rumor started.

John had told his dad that he and Sherlock didn't take drugs. Of course, John meant that they weren't smoking blunts or injecting heroin into their systems. Prescription drugs, on the other hand, was a different story.

Someone had seen him, a real eye witness, and the rumor began. At this point, the rumors about Sherlock Holmes were actually getting old and nobody seemed to care about what he was up to, which was great for Sherlock, who hated dealing with people in general. However, more people became eye witnesses, and the rumor that Sherlock Holmes was "popping pills" had set into motion.

It didn't take long for John to hear it. His rugby team was talking about it. John didn't talk to his teammates anymore, not after they rejected him for standing up to them. Still, he eavesdropped, and he didn't believe it at all.

Sherlock popping pills? Rumor had it that he had a plastic bag of them, a few pills and in different colors and shapes. More than one pill, all taken at the same time, and then again the next day. He took them down with water, according to the rumor. John could only assume that Sherlock was taking some sort of prescribed medication - or medications, in this case. He couldn't imagine the hard time they would give his friend.

John became an eye witness eventually. He was walking down to use the lavatories when he saw his friend with a small, plastic bag that contained three different pills inside. Sherlock poured them gently into his hand, then threw them into his mouth. He then proceeded to take a water bottle out of his locker and drink from there, swallowing the pills down. Once he had done that, he shut his locker, but turned in horror when he saw John.

Sherlock didn't say anything of it. He tried to walk away quickly, but John approached him quicker.

"The rumors," John began. "They're not true, are they? Please tell me that they're prescribed medication."

He heard Sherlock sigh in relief. His friend turned to him and patted his head lightly.

"Thank you," he said, "for being smarter than the rest of these idiots."

John nodded. "Yeah, no problem... Why do you have to take so many pills? Three's awfully much, isn't it?"

"It's a three-pill problem, John," Sherlock replied.

"What are they all for?"

"Non of your business."

"I'm just curious."

"Well, it's my business, so if you respected me, you'd stay out of it."

"Sorry, I was...just curious...are they just antibiotics?"

"Something like that..." Sherlock sighed, but not in relief this time.

"You have ADHD?"

"What? No."

"ADD?"

"No, John."

"Aspergers?"

"What makes you think I have Aspergers?"

"It seemed so, since you-"

"I don't want to hear it. And I don't want you guessing either. That's rude."

"Sorry. I just thought, since we were friends, that we should know more about each other."

"Well, I take medication. That's all you need to know."

"Okay..."

"For now. Giving you too much information will make your head spin."

"So I will learn eventually?"

"Yes, if you're smart enough, or if I feel generous enough to tell you."

"Great..."

"Don't you have to use the loo?"

"Oh! Right. Thanks."


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Hands**

There were more texts from Jim. They flooded in every day now, and it was annoying.

"Hey." "You're lovely when you spin. It makes me dizzy just looking at you." "You're intoxicating...in a very good way." "You have the cutest arse. I just want to hold it in my hands."

Sherlock was completely disgusted. He wanted to delete Jim's number, block it forever, but he couldn't. He was frustrated that he couldn't. Why couldn't he? Perhaps he was afraid that Jim would just take his phone and put his number in again, or unblock the number. Jim did have a way of stealing Sherlock's phone, regardless of where Sherlock was able to hide it. Sherlock had thought about hiding his phone in the leotard he was wearing, but the idea of Jim touching him again was terrifying, especially if Sherlock could hide his phone in a place Jim wasn't allowed near.

There was a day that Sherlock went into the studio by himself. He was allowed to, after all. He liked it better alone, or rather without Jim constantly being able to touch him.

Sherlock put on his headphones, playing "This is Gospel" on his iPod, then proceeding to practice with the song on repeat. Soon enough, he was lost in it.

He kept his eyes shut longer than he kept them open. Sure, he wouldn't be able to see himself, but he rather preferred that, wanting to feel free and lost in the music, not focusing on how he looked or how many steps he would miss. He was surprised that his headphones stayed on for him, despite the intense twirling and jumping. It didn't matter, because he felt absolutely content, stepping lightly to the music, spinning about and ceasing to stop.

That was, until, he felt hands. _Familiar_ hands.

Sherlock's heart leapt into his throat. He stopped, feeling the hands around his slender waist, gently holding onto him. He caught the familiar scent near his body, then a cold breath down his neck.

"Darling, me oh my," he heard the disembodied voice say. "It's such a nice surprise seeing you here, to see you dance about. Watching you spin like that makes me dizzy just looking at you."

Sherlock froze, refusing to move, although that left Jim the advantage of doing what he wanted.

Jim lifted Sherlock's slender arms and wrapped them around his own neck. He then proceeded to hum as he moved his hands slowly and gently down the boy's small waist, his fingers finding their way to his belly so he could calmly rub up and down his bare skin (since he wasn't wearing a leotard underneath his clothes, that day not being a practice day).

Sherlock wanted it to stop, but something felt...right. He hated how right, how pleasurable it felt. He never wanted to feel this way. Even when he was younger, he never masturbated or let himself feel that way, and now he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. Run away? Scream? Fight back? He felt terrified, but he couldn't move away.

Once Jim moved his hands downward, however, he felt uncomfortable. All the spinning was finally getting to him, and he began to feel dizzy, despite him frequently turning his head. He cringed, moving downward himself, trying to keep Jim's hands as far away as possible. To that, Jim held him up, his hands becoming tighter around his stomach, which began turning.

"You like it when I touch you here, little bird?" Jim asked softly into his ear, breathing warm air on his neck. Sherlock could feel the goosebumps on his arms and legs as a chill went up his spine. Jim just grinned, continuing to stroke his bare belly and make him feel odd...but a good kind of odd. The older Irish boy continued to murmur sweet things to Sherlock as he pressed him closer and commenting on his soft tummy.

It was wrong. It was terribly wrong. Sherlock lost the feeling in less than a minute, then felt completely disgusted, getting off of Jim and falling to the floor. His head was spinning, and he didn't feel alright. Before Jim could help him off the floor, he ran out of the dance studio, grabbing his bag along the way, trying to get those thoughts out of his head. He continued to run with stumbling legs until he made it into his house through the open back door and into his room, where he lay down, curled up and refusing to come out.

He kept his hands wrapped around his abdomen, in all the places where Jim had touched him. He rubbed it, trying to remove the touch, wash it off and never have to feel it again. Of course, he wanted to feel it again. He wanted to feel all of those feelings, those wrong yet so pleasurable feelings. The only reason he didn't, he concluded, was because they came from Jim, who didn't want anything but sex. Sherlock didn't want sex. He wanted something else, something more, but he wasn't sure what that was.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty: Sick Day**

There were days where John could tell that Sherlock shouldn't have been going to school. It had been two months since the school year started, and already Sherlock had come to school either too tired to focus or too sick to function. There was even a time where he saw Sherlock being sent home with a stomach virus. Other than that, there were a few instances of him passing out or even just not coming to school.

"This is his seventh absence," John said one day to himself, sitting at the lunch table with Molly and Mike.

"Seven?" Mike responded. "I thought it was more than that."

"Seven times he hasn't shown up to school at all, not counting him leaving early."

"His attendance record isn't that great."

"Yeah, but his GPA makes up for it. 3.6, I think."

"It's higher than yours. You're a 3.4, aren't you?"

"Yeah. But it's fine that he misses school sometimes. I do, too, but not this often."

"Maybe he skips school more often than you think."

"I don't think he skips. He skipped once, with me, and that was it. He's been really sick once or twice. I don't think he's a healthy kid in general. He won't even tell me what he's medicated for."

"One's a painkiller," a small voice came. John and Mike turned to Molly, who sat quietly eating crisps until now.

"How do you know that?" John asked.

"It looks like one," said Molly. "Like a normal painkiller you can buy over the counter at the chemist."

"What about the other two?"

"I can't say, because I don't know."

"Okay...well, thanks, Molly. You've been helpful."

Molly blushed at John's words. Mike motioned John to look and try to make more moves on her, but John wasn't interested in Molly. In his head, he thought, that maybe Sherlock would be a better fit for Molly than he would.

* * *

><p>John was driving home from a long practice when he got a call saying that his parents were going out for the night. It wasn't on a date, but it was to a party for some coworkers of his dad's. His parents never "dated" anymore, not even on their anniversary, but it was nice that they got a night to themselves.<p>

With that, John had an idea. He took a different route, almost losing his way when he found the Chinese restaurant he went to with Sherlock. He ordered some soup and egg rolls to-go, then made his way down to Sherlock's house.

John wasn't exactly sure how he was going to approach this house, especially after ditching school not too long ago. Still, he went through the gate and up to the door, where he used the knocker to knock, then waited. He tapped his foot, the bag of food gripped tightly in his hand. He looked into the windows, but the curtains were shut. Maybe no one was home? There was a car in the driveway. He knocked again, louder, just in case nobody had heard him. After another minute of no response, he became frustrated. He rang the doorbell, knocked again and again, and then a response came when Mrs. Holmes answered the door amidst John pressing the doorbell once again.

John froze, standing straight. "Sorry, ma'am," he said. "I was just...it's been a few minutes-"

"It's alright, dear," Mrs. Holmes replied. "I was just doing some laundry in the basement. I would've heard you. My husband, on the other hand, could be standing by the door and not notice a thing... Anyway, can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm John Watson."

"Yes, I know who you are."

"Mhm. So I was wondering...I brought soup for Sherlock. I was just coming over to visit."

"Really?" Her eyes lit up. Clearly, no one ever came to visit Sherlock when he was under the weather. "Wonderful. Come in."

John walked into the house. It was a bit smaller than he thought it would be on the inside, but it was still more luxurious than anywhere he'd ever lived.

"So," said John as he looked around, trying to make casual conversation, "wh-why wasn't Sherlock at school today? Not feeling well again?"

Mrs. Holmes nodded. "Such a shame. He misses so much school. He really likes going to school."

"He does?"

"Mhm. Loves to learn. Do you want me to heat the soup in the microwave before you bring it to him?"

"That's alright. It was scalding hot when they gave it to me."

"Alright then. He's just upstairs, at the end of the hall on your right. If you need anything, I'll be here."

"Thanks, Mrs. Holmes."

John made his way up the stairs, being wary of the soup in the bag. He made it put he stairs and got he end of the hall. Sherlock's door had several stickers on it, mostly from bands he liked. He knocked on the door lightly, but it was open, so he entered slowly.

"Hey, Sherlock," he said. He saw Sherlock lying in his bed, curled up under the covers. "I came to see you...got you soup."

When Sherlock didn't respond, John walked closer to the bed, setting he bag of food down on he nightstand. He went to the other side of the bed, wanting to see if Sherlock was asleep.

He wasn't.

John looked over, but his eyes were shut. He tried to shake his friend awake, but Sherlock's eyes shot open before he could even touch him. John nearly screamed, backing up and falling onto his butt.

"Don't _do_ that!" John exclaimed.

"Don't do what?" Sherlock asked, his voice very monotone and deep.

"Don't scare me like that."

"That wasn't my intention."

John sighed. "Well, I came to-"

"I heard you." Sherlock looked in the bag and sniffed the contents, pulling out the soup. "Do me a favor and get my mug. I don't want to drink out of the container."

"Your mug?"

"Yes. I'll set up our meal here. You get my mug."

"O...kay."

John left the room, going back downstairs to find his mug. Mrs. Holmes knew what John meant when he asked her. It was a royal blue soup mug covered in Van Gogh's "Starry Night." Once he had it, he came back upstairs to find Sherlock sitting on his bed with a tray in front of him. He had set out all the food from the bag and even used the bag as "plates" by tearing it symmetrically.

Sherlock looked to John, noticing his mug, then reaching out his hand for it. John gave it to him, and then he proceeded to pour the soup into it.

"Don't spill it," John warned.

"I won't spill it," Sherlock responded, slowly pouring the soup into his mug until all of the contents had transferred. He sipped the soup and hummed. "Still warm..." He looked at John again. "Come, sit and eat, will you?"

John sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. Sherlock motioned him to sit closer to the tray, which he did.

"Why weren't you at school today?" John asked, taking a bite out of his egg roll that he dipped in some plum sauce. "You don't look sick. Do you feel sick?"

"I guess I'm doing okay," Sherlock replied. "I wasn't this morning. I was lacking a lot of motivation."

"Wait, you didn't come to school because you didn't _want_ to? And your mother let you get away with that?"

"Of course not. I don't usually lack motivation. I just...get down, sometimes. It happens. It's not really a big deal."

"You get down? Like...depressed?"

"Yeah." Sherlock drank more of his soup.

"Oh...well, don't you take antidepressants or something?"

"I'm getting more next week. I'm out right now, and already I'm not well enough to function."

"So one of those pills was an antidepressant?"

"Yes."

"Okay. An antidepressant, a painkiller, and what's the third one?"

"How do you know one's a painkiller?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Molly Hooper assumed-"

"Of course she did. She knows. Her father has constant migraines, so he must take a similar pill."

"Her father? Is that just a deduction or have you actually met her father?"

"Well, used to, before they realized it was cancer. He's dead now."

"What? Sherlock!"

"He is. I asked her myself. She's okay with it. It was a long time ago."

"Well you don't have to be so insensitive about it. Cancer is serious business."

"I _know_ it's serious business, John...anyway, yes, it is a painkiller."

"Why?"

"Nothing to be concerned about."

"Is it because you're getting beat up a lot?"

"Sort of..."

"What about the third pill? What's that?"

"Also nothing to be concerned about-"

"Sherlock."

"It's...it's for my anorexia, okay?"

"Anorexia and depression? Jeez, Sherlock, that's terrible. Why'd you do that to yourself?"

"Well, some things don't go the way you'd like them to, John. Sometimes, things like that just spring up on you and you don't know why..." He almost got angry, but then he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

"No, I shouldn't have asked. Those are sensitive topics. I won't ask you again. I'm sorry."

"Good." Sherlock took an egg roll and bit into it. "You drove all the way to that Chinese restaurant to get this food for me?"

"Yeah, it wasn't that far. Besides, I thought maybe you got a cold, so I wanted to get soup."

"Well, I don't, so..."

"Do you like the soup?"

"It's delightful."

After eating, John stayed a couple hours longer, staying with Sherlock in his room, playing a couple of video games that he had. He watched Sherlock play a Legend of Zelda game for a while, and talked to him, making jokes so he could see his friend smile despite his depressed state.

John liked to see Sherlock smile. He didn't know why he did. Maybe because it made him feel cathartic? Or maybe he liked to see it. Sherlock rarely ever smiled, but when he did, it was almost as amazing as his massive intellect. Or maybe John liked the fact that he could make Sherlock happy. Now he had more of a reason to make him so.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter Thirty-One: Tutoring**

John didn't know how he could be failing a class. Sure, Maths was a difficult class altogether, but he did well. At least he thought he did, until he saw his grade. And as the trimester was coming to an end, rugby done and over with and an examination coming up, he had to find a way to keep his grade at an acceptable level for his dad's standards. He wasn't going to fail his father, not today and not ever.

It was around that time that Sherlock was asked to be a tutor for some students, considering he excelled in his studies, better than even some of the upperclassmen. He was willing to refuse the offer, considering that he didn't like people and people didn't really like him, either, but there was a desire to impress people that led him to do it.

He decided on doing his tutoring during a lunch period, hoping that nobody would want to come then. Sadly, he was mistaken.

Sherlock sat in an empty classroom at the beginning of the lunch period, a granola bar in his mouth, tapping a pencil on the desk. He felt like nobody would show up. He didn't tell anyone, and nobody made it clear that he was tutoring. He sat there in wait, but could easily go to lunch and just sit there. The empty classroom was quiet, though, and he enjoyed the solitary.

That was, until John knocked on the door. John had heard there was a Maths tutor that was willing to help him during lunch, and so he decided to go. The professor shot old him failed to mention who it was.

When they caught sight of each other, it was completely silent. Both of them were very confused. Sherlock assumed John had been just looking for him, but the confusion on his face said otherwise.

"Are you...here for the tutor?"

"What? I _am_ the tutor, bitch!" He gave John some made-up hand signal which consisted of him flicking his wrist whilst holding up every finger except his middle one.

"_You're_ the tutor?"

"Yes. Brilliant work of deduction."

"Why are you tutoring? You hate people."

"I was forced to tutor. Nobody came. You're the only idiot who will let me tutor you."

"Or the only smart person who would actually come to a genius student for help." Sherlock gave John a look. It wasn't a bad look, but it didn't seem like a good one, either. "Sorry."

"No, it's...fine...but you obviously need a Maths tutor. You're doing poorly."

"You're not even in my class."

"No, I'm in the one above. Which means I don't have to take your Maths class, meaning I know more about it than you. Let's begin."

For the rest of the period, they ate their lunch as Sherlock helped John with Maths. Sherlock didn't seem the least bit annoyed, not like he would have with anyone else. John believed that Sherlock saw the world as if he lived in a world of non-advanced monkeys. So who was John now? A human being? Certainly not an intellectual one, considering how much Sherlock degraded him.

"I think I'll like this," said John. "You don't have to tutor me, you know. We could just pretend you are and come here for lunch."

"I was thinking the same thing," Sherlock replied.

"Wait, but Molly, though."

"She'll be fine."

"Will she?"

"Yes."

John just shrugged. "Maybe she can join us."

"Why?"

"Isn't she your friend?"

"Where'd you get that idea?"

"I...don't know." John wasn't willing to argue with Sherlock over the subject of friends. Sometimes he forgot that he was most likely the only one Sherlock ever had.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter Thirty-Two: John Watson's Video Diary**

This had started a couple years ago, when John and his family had first moved in. He'd bought himself a camcorder as a birthday gift to himself, paying for it with the birthday money he had. He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to film, but he knew he would film something. That's how he began filming private video diaries.

To John, his diaries were quite boring. He never posted them online. He watched them a couple of times when he was bored or even after filming another. A lot of them were of him wondering what he should do with this video diary. Watching them over and over, John found out that his diaries were the dumbest and most boring videos that ever existed. Yet he had made the mistake of continuing to make them. They all seemed like he was making the same video on different days. One day he was just fed up with all the dumb videos that he erased them from the camcorder. With the memory blank, here was nothing John could look back on like he had hoped to do.

That changed when he took his camcorder to school one day. For his Literature class, the students were assigned a project to use any type of media to reenact a story or something (John hated Literature and didn't pay much attention). He planned on working with a partner after school, but for now he kept the camcorder in his hands, tediously filming busy hallways and lockers.

"What are you doing?" a disembodied voice asked when John was sitting on the floor against a locker, filming the halls. John looked over to see Sherlock sitting next to him. John turned the camcorder as well without knowing.

"Just filming," he replied. "I have to film for Literature."

"You don't have to. You just chose to. That's boring."

"You're not even in my class. You're in none of my classes. You don't get the right to complain."

"Lucky me, I suppose."

"Yeah, but I bet AP Literature is harder."

"It's a lot of reading, lots of notes. You wouldn't like it. It'd be too challenging for you."

"Are you saying I'm dumber than you?"

"I never said that."

"It was implied."

"Not really."

"You're a dick, you know that?"

Sherlock chuckled, nodding. John giggled a bit, too, then realized his camcorder was on. He turned it off right then, not realizing what he had filmed until he watched it again during his tutoring period.

Sherlock was in the middle of explaining something that John was confused on. John, on the other hand, was looking at his camcorder and snickering at the video he had taken earlier that day. Sherlock wasn't fond of him not paying attention. He hit his friend over the head with a book.

"Ow!" John exclaimed. "Hey! What was that for?"

"Pay attention!" Sherlock demanded.

"I am."

"Obviously not. You're busy laughing. I don't understand what's funny."

"Are you actually mad right now?"

"You're the one who wanted my help. But if you don't need it-"

"No! No, just...just watch. I was filming earlier. Look."

John showed Sherlock the video, and he noticed him trying not to smile.

"Admit it," said John, "it's funny!"

"Why were you filming me?" Sherlock asked.

"I didn't know. If left my camera on... I should put this online."

"No, John."

"Come on. It'll be fun!"

"No. I don't need my face plastered online."

"Come on, Sherlock. Here." John turned his camera on again. "Say something. Go ahead." He pointed the camcorder toward his friend's face.

"John, no. I don't want to. Stop!"

"Don't worry, you look great. Just say something. Anything at all."

Sherlock sighed. He straightened his shoulders, looked directly into the camera lens, and flipped it off.

John laughed at that. "You're so rude! Got anything else?"

"Yeah, uh...here." He grabbed the book again and hit John over the head lightly.

"Ow! Hey!" John left the camcorder on the table, grabbing his own book and hitting Sherlock in the arms and back. Sherlock laughed hysterically, since John wasn't hitting him that hard and that he knew he deserved it. The camcorder recorded all of that, plus a bit of John playfully holding Sherlock in a headlock, ruffling his hair while Sherlock complained, "Don't touch my hair! My hair! Quit it!"

Both of them watched the footage later and couldn't stop laughing. The video went up on the Internet the next day.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hello again! Sorry the updates haven't been frequent. I've been busy with school work and have also been struggling with what I'm going to do with the story. I'm just glad that I could get John's blog (which is actually going to be a vlog) into the story. I feel like I need more detail before I move on, because I'm wondering what to do with Irene Adler and more Moriarty. I am also starting another fic that I've been trying to write for over a year but had trouble starting it. <strong>

**Anyway, feedback is always appreciated. I will try and get more of the story done soon so I can upload it, but please be patient with me! Thanks and happy reading!**

**CWM**


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Attention**

After the first video, John decided to make other videos with Sherlock. Some of them, if not most of them, were not to his friend's knowing at first, until he noticed the camera and told John to shut it off.

John got a lot of compliments on his first video, which made John feel like a success. His video got a thousand views, and for someone who just started making videos, it was exciting. Yet, despite his efforts, many of the comments were directed towards Sherlock.

"Who's the dark-haired boy? He's cute," they'd say. "The tall boy is hot af." "Hot British boys are hot."

John knew that he was the popular one, so he tried to get Sherlock filmed more than himself. Sadly, whenever he filmed Sherlock, Sherlock would be rather boring, talking about Maths and science. Sometimes he'd deduce people, talk about people passing through the hall. He showed off his intelligence quite often, and when John posted that, that is what became popular.

"Do you know how many subscribers I've gotten in the past three weeks?" John asked one day when he was walking in the hall with Sherlock.

"Why would I care?" Sherlock replied, going to his locker to take his medication.

"Over a thousand. A thousand! Can you believe it?"

"Yes, I can. Your camcorder has a decent lens and microphone. What do you film most of the time anyway?"

"You, actually."

"What? No. I can't be that popular. I barely have fifty people following my Tumblr."

"You have a Tumblr?"

"Yes. The Science of Deduction. You can check it out, if you'd like."

"Sure. But seriously, people are interested in you. Girls, boys, all the like. It's amazing."

Sherlock threw the pills in his mouth, then took them down with a water bottle, not responding to John.

"A lot of people think you're amazing, Sherlock. I wouldn't believe that the world hates you."

"The world may not hate me, but _my_ world certainly does."

"I don't hate you."

"You're an exception." With that, Sherlock headed to a different class. John's class was in the other direction, so he couldn't follow.

Sherlock felt his phone buzz in his pocket later that day. He looked at it, and it was the inevitable text from Jim.

"Saw your videos recently. You're too cute to handle sometimes. ;)"

Sherlock was mortified. Now he had an idea of who was watching John's videos. Over a thousand, John had said, and now he knew Jim was in there. Sherlock didn't need that. He could easily tell John to stop making the videos, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. John was so happy with his new fame rising, and Jim was sending rather harmless texts, so Sherlock tried not to worry too much about it.

* * *

><p>Sherlock looked at some of the comments on John's videos later that night. He had made more, mostly just him talking into the camera about tedious things, most of which Sherlock didn't pay attention to. He did see how happy John was making these videos, but he also had to have his say on John's speech and how he presented himself. He told him so via text.<p>

You need to work on your speech. You stutter in your videos. Learn how to edit properly so that your videos are a bit smoother, but don't make them too choppy either. SH

R u insulting me? JW

It's constructive criticism. SH

Well I found u on Tumblr. JW

And YouTube. JW

U r the most emo kid I've ever seen. Ur videos r old. How old were u? JW

I was fourteen. That was a long time ago. I don't want you to talk to me ever again. SH

Lol it's k I won't tell anyone. JW

Ur a good musician tho. U have a good voice. JW

Thank you. SH

Do I have a band? JW

Sorry. I'm a solo act. SH

I can't play any instruments. I don't wanna be in any band. Srry. JW

USE VOWELS YOU UNCULTURED SWINE! SH

Lol. JW


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter Thirty-Four: The Dancers**

Winter was steadily approaching. With winter came the end of rugby but the beginning of Nutcracker. Sherlock made no mention of it, but John had noticed him when he was alone in the vacant classroom for tutoring, dancing about when he thought no one was looking, humming to the tune.

"Wow," said John, coming in, "you're good at that. Don't you get dizzy from all the spinning-"

Sherlock was mortified. He was so startled, in fact, that he stumbled over a chair and hit the ground on his back.

"_Sorry!_ Sorry!" John repeated as he rushed over to help him. "Are you okay?"

"Uhuh," Sherlock mumbled, sitting up with help from John. "I've fallen on my back before. I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Mhm."

"Were you...dancing?"

"Obviously. Please feel free to laugh in your own time."

"I'm not laughing."

"You're grinning. I don't like it."

"I'm sorry. I can't help it." John held out his arm and helped Sherlock back up. "You're really talented. You can do anything, can't you?"

"Not everything. Most things, but not everything."

"You can dance, you can sing, you can play multiple instruments, you're incredibly smart...am I missing anything?"

"I can act, recite Shakespeare, and tell you your life story just by deducing you?"

"None of those things surprise me. What can't you do?"

"I can't talk to ordinary people."

"Yeah, you can."

"No, I can't, not without getting hurt or ridiculed. You know that."

"But you can, so it counts...why were you dancing?"

"I needed somewhere to practice. I'm preparing for Nutcracker this year."

"You do that?"

"Yes, I do. How many tickets do I need to reserve for you?"

"Now way. I'm not seeing that."

Sherlock looked at him, very confused and slightly hurt. "What do you mean? You promised. You said that if I came to one of your rugby matches that you would return the favor by coming to one of my recitals. Nutcracker counts. And I had to go to your stupid rugby match in the freezing cold, which was not to my liking. And if you're a man of your word, you'll come." Now he was angry.

John's eyes widened. "Okay, calm down. It's not that big a deal-"

"Not that big a..." Sherlock groaned. "Are you joking right now? You made your match a big deal. Now all of a sudden _I'm_ not important?" He froze when he said that. "I meant..."

"Sherlock?"

"Forget it." Sherlock grabbed his backpack and stormed out.

"Sherlock!" John wanted to go after him, but a part of him told him not to, to let Sherlock cool off. "He's being a drama queen," he muttered.

...

Later that day, John wanted to see if Sherlock was okay. He texted him, but there was no response. Was he really mad at John this time? He couldn't be. He was just overreacting. Still, John needed to apologize for what he said. He had made his match a big deal and basically forced Sherlock to go. To say that he didn't have to go to the Nutcracker, although he said he'd go, was a terrible thing.

He didn't know where to find Sherlock at the end of the day, which is why he couldn't believe that he was driving all the way to the dance studio to apologize. It shouldn't have been a big deal to go and find him and apologize when he could just apologize tomorrow. John didn't think that. He thought that if he didn't apologize soon that he would lose Sherlock's trust. And they were such good friends already.

He walked into the building quietly, hearing the faint sound of music coming from the studio. He looked in through a small square of glass on the door, seeing all of the dancers in dark leotards and pale pink tights, dancing to the music in perfect harmony. John tried to find his friend, but he couldn't see him. He sighed, deciding to wait until the class was over or when Sherlock came out to apologize.

It was almost an hour before the dancers all came out, wearing coats and street clothes instead of their leotards, every girl with a bun high in her hair, talking and laughing with each other. Two boys came out, but they weren't Sherlock. He looked inside the open studio, finally seeing him.

Sherlock was putting his graphic t-shirt and jeans back on when John noticed another boy approach his friend rather closely, talking to him softly in his ear and gently stroking his fingers against him. John looked away before the two spotted him staring at it.

It's true, John thought. He's dating someone. He's dating a guy, of all things. A part of John felt something odd. Jealousy? Guilt? Or maybe the sight of it was like seeing his sister with another girl, seeing them being intimate. It was an odd feeling.

"I'll see you tomorrow, pretty bird," John heard the other boy call as he exited the dance studio. John turned to get a good look at him. He was slightly taller than John, with dark, slicked-back hair and brown eyes. His face was as pale as Sherlock's, maybe a bit pinker, and the look he gave John when he walked by was unsettling.

John heard a sudden sigh from the dance studio, looking towards Sherlock. Sherlock looked up once he'd gathered his things, and their eyes locked for two seconds before Sherlock groaned.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked. "To apologize? You'd come all this way to apologize?"

"Yes, Sherlock," John replied. "That's why I came here. Is there any way you could-"

"You don't have to come."

"What?"

"You don't have to come anymore, not if you don't want to. You didn't seem interested."

"Sherlock, no. I made a promise, and I intend on keeping it, so...that's one ticket you have to reserve. And I'll even bring a date. That's two."

"What about family?"

"I'll ask, but I don't know if they'll be too busy."

"Tell me the number again tomorrow, once you're sure."

"Who was that guy talking to you?"

Sherlock froze. He looked away from John, trying to get out of the conversation.

"Sherlock, who was he? The Irish boy? You two seem...intimate-"

"Jim Moriarty and I are _not_ intimate. He is _not_ my boyfriend. I am _not_ interested in him, and what he does to me is _not_ consensual, but I can't do anything about it because it's too fucking innocent to call harassment!"

John backed up. Sherlock was on edge, and it was obvious that he was uncomfortable with Jim. He didn't want to make his friend angrier than he was.

"Can I take you home, Sherlock?" he offered.

"Yes, please," Sherlock replied more calmly, his voice cracking.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter Thirty-Five: The Girl**

"Maybe you should try dating girls?"

John had brought up the conversation randomly during their "tutoring" sessions (John started doing better in math and so tutoring wasn't necessary, but the chaos of the cafeteria was too much for Sherlock, so they stayed), feeling that it was safe to talk about it a week after he witnessed what Jim did to Sherlock.

"I don't understand," was Sherlock's response.

"Or guys," John continued, "whatever you like."

"Why?"

"To get Jim off your back. Date somebody else."

Sherlock was silent. He even put his headphones in just to drown out the conversation.

"Seriously," John said, moving the headphones off of his ears, disregarding Sherlock's hisses in protest. "You should date other people. It keeps perverts like him off of your back. Plus, Christmas is almost here. Would be cute to kiss somebody under the mistletoe."

"_Blech_." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why would I want that?"

"You're such a child. Come on. I'll even set you up with somebody."

"No. I don't want you to."

"Fine. Find somebody on your own...but between you and me, I probably would've gone straight to Molly Hooper."

"Why?"

"Because I think you two would be cute together."

"Ugh, I hate that word. 'Cute.' Makes me sound inferior."

"You two talk sometimes. She's a nice girl, soft-toned, down to earth...You could use some softening up, too. I think she could soften you up."

"Is that what girlfriends do? 'Soften you up?'"

"Not all the time. I'm just saying that You two could, you know, hit it off."

"Hit what off?"

"A relationship. It would be...sweet."

"Just say it, John."

"It'd be _cute_."

"Agh..._no!_" Sherlock banged his head on the desk dramatically. John laughed at it, rolling his eyes.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was walking down the hallway when he first saw her. He had his headphones in, not paying attention to the conversations or the nonsense. He deduced everything about these people, looking them up and down. His head was turned when he felt a hand reach into his pocket and grab his phone. Unfortunately, his phone was playing his music, so when the headphones disconnected, Sherlock noticed. Whoever the pickpocket was had not been stealthy enough to get away with it.<p>

Sherlock turned his head quickly, recognizing the quick movements of a small person trying to move past people in the halls. Sherlock instinctually ran after the culprit, not taking theft very lightly. He almost lost the thief in the sea of students, but then found them going into a locker room. He made his way past other students and into the locker room.

He didn't realize it was the girl's locker room until he saw the pink walls. At this point, he didn't care.

"Where are you?" Sherlock called. "I know you're in here somewhere. I would like to take back what's mine."

"You mean this?" Sherlock heard a voice behind him. It was a girl's voice.

He turned around slowly, then realized that the girl was completely naked. Most girls would scream at the boy who entered the girl's locker room, but this girl was completely different, showing off everything. Sherlock focused on her face instead. She had a nice face, sharp cheekbones, big, green eyes, a slender nose and blood-red lips. Her hair was dark and tied up nicely, but Sherlock knew it was possibly long enough to cover her breasts if it was put down.

She held up his phone for him. "Looking for this?" she continued. "I had to make a phone call very quick, and I only assumed you had the number. After all, you do dance with him, don't you?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "You know Jim Moriarty?" She nodded. "In that case, you don't even go to this school. If you did, I would've recognized you."

"Not by name," she replied. "Jim tells me you're smart. And I've heard of you...he showed me the YouTube videos that your friend makes." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're very intelligent. I like that." The girl walked closer to him, taking his wrist and placing his phone back into his open palm. "Tell me, if you can deduce all these people..." She moved closer to him, standing on the balls of her feet so that they were almost touching noses. "...what can you say about me?"

Sherlock was incredibly uncomfortable. This wasn't like Jim, however. This girl knew how to get his attention, send him running after her. And she knew how to leave him speechless.

"I like your eyeliner," she murmured, coming way too close, which made Sherlock panic and push her back, touching her breasts in the process. He blushed red when he did.

The girl didn't seem to mind, just surprised at the fact that he would be so uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," he managed to say, "I just...you're too close. If I'm going to...deduce you, then you need to be farther away."

"Oh."

"I think I have enough information about you to go with."

"But not my name."

"It's not important. Put some clothes on before someone walks in and sees you."

"Like you?" She walked over to a bag she had and started to put her clothes back on.

"I came here for my phone, which you 'borrowed.' I didn't come here for a..peep show. Most people would call you a slut. You're just trying to get my attention."

"You catch on quick. So tell me, then, how do you seduce a boy who can't be seduced?"

"You don't...and you're much too old for me. If you're anywhere near Jim's age, anything you do to me can be considered illegal."

"You're sixteen, aren't you? If it's consensual, it doesn't have to be legal."

"It won't be..." He looked up to see that she had changed into some casual clothing. It wasn't as modest as he'd hoped, but he could only assume she wanted to feel attractive.

She took her bag and walked past him, touching his shoulder gently. He noticed her painted nails, slender and red, almost as sharp as a cat's. Fake, obviously. She wore heels now, and she was as tall as him. They looked at each other for five solid seconds, then she walked away.

"The name's Irene Adler, by the way," she called after him before she opened the door. She turned back and grinned. "You might want to leave before someone sees you." She winked at him, then was gone out the door.

Sherlock quickly went to the door, but by the time he could open it and search the halls, she was gone.

His phone buzzed. No, it didn't buzz; it _moaned_. He looked at it, reading a text that he had received from a number he didn't recognize.

"It was nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes. X"


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter Thirty-Six: Girls**

Irene Adler was more noticeable once Sherlock knew of her existence. She came to the dance studio every once in a while, working as a temp in the finance office. She was in Uni, like Jim, so he didn't see her at school. Still, she texted him often, especially at school, but he wouldn't respond. It was like having a second Jim, except she was kinder in her texts than he was. Hers were also more frequent.

Sherlock kept his phone on vibrate after he was sitting in class and his phone unexpectedly moaned, causing an awkward silence, although it was pretty quiet in the room anyway. Luckily the professor didn't recognize it as a phone and moved on.

It was Molly who noticed first.

Why was Molly there? Well, John had told Molly, who was curious and worried that something was wrong, what he and Sherlock had been up to every day at lunch. Molly admitted that he considered joining, but she didn't need any tutoring and would feel uninvolved in a tutoring class full of people who would drive Sherlock up a wall with their ignorance. When John mentioned that it wasn't even tutoring, Molly was willing to come.

Sherlock responded indifferently. He saw her walk in and was confused.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in a cold tone.

"I-I..." Molly stammered. "I was-"

"It's okay, Sherlock," said John, "I invited her. It's okay, she knows."

"Why?"

"She was concerned."

"Well you didn't have to tell her to come."

"Come on, Sherlock. I thought she was our friend."

"Where'd you get that idea?"

"From you?"

"Well you're sorely mistaken."

Molly looked shamefully down at her shoes as they argued. When Sherlock said that, however, it hit her hard. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she left quickly before they could see her cry.

The two boys looked up in her direction as she left the room. There was a sudden silence that lasted almost ten seconds before Sherlock filled it.

"I guess she wasn't interested," he said stoically.

John was unamused. "What was that?" he asked. "I can't believe you just said that! You don't say that."

"I was being honest. Shouldn't I be honest?"

"You call that being honest? No, that's rude. Go after her and apologize."

Sherlock groaned. "I don't do apologies."

"What- Sherlock, what about the time we ditched? You apologized more than once."

"That was different."

"Get off your arse and apologize."

Sherlock groaned louder. "_Fine_. God..." John grinned a bit. "Don't smile about it." He smiled even more as Sherlock went over to apologize.

Sherlock walked out of the room and saw her walking down the hallway. He swallowed when he could hear her quiet sobbing echoing in the empty hall. She was at her locker, rummaging through her bag, looking for her tissues. She was becoming more upset the longer it took her to find them.

Sherlock walked up to her silently, sighing. "Do you need help?" he asked. Molly jumped at the sound of his voice, turning around quickly and revealing her pink, tear-stained cheeks.

"What do you want?" she asked in a rather rude tone, although her shaky voice ruined some of the effect.

"I came here to apologize," Sherlock replied.

"Did John tell you to?"

"Yes, he did. He gets a real kick out of being authoritative."

"Well, he's the captain of the rugby team."

"Wait, he was the captain? He was one of the shortest guys on the team!"

"So? He...he has good leadership skills. And he's actually nice, unlike you!" She slammed her locker and tried to walk away.

"Molly, I-"

"Why do you have to say those things? You say terrible things! And why do you have to say them to my face?" She began to snivel again, burying her face in her petite hands.

Sherlock sighed. "Please don't cry. You'll become dehydrated."

Molly actually giggled at that. "Is that your way of making me feel better?"

"Did you want it to be?"

Realizing he was serious, she wanted to say something. Then there was a moan. They both blushed loudly.

"That-that wasn't me!" Molly stammered. "I swear-"

"No," Sherlock replied quickly, "it was me." He pulled out his phone. He could've sworn he silenced it, reading the text: "Watching some of your videos. You look very cute."

"Oh. Why does your phone make that noise?"

"I dunno."

"Is it Jim?"

"No. It's...um...nothing. It's nothing."

"You can tell me."

"It's some girl who took my phone yesterday. She knows Jim a bit, but she doesn't seem interested in him..."

"Oh."

"Are you coming with me? Back to the room? We can sit in there for a couple of minutes, I guess...and you can come more often if you want to."

"No, I get it. You want to spend time with John. I'm not as much of a friend as he is..."

"You can be if you spent more time with us."

Molly smiled at that as she followed Sherlock back. It wasn't a traditional apology, but it was one whether Sherlock knew it or not. Molly was fine with it either way, since he was willing to let her in. He seemed like he wanted her to be his friend. To Molly, John was Sherlock's only friend, and although one friend is okay, she couldn't help but feel that he was lonely.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hello! Sorry I haven't updated in forever. God forbid I have a social life outside of writing this fan fiction. Just a heads up, however, that school is going to tackle me down this week, so I'm not going to be able to write any more chapters for a while. I might be able to get through a couple, but in the meantime, I suggest that you remain patient. I'm truly trying to get through this, but life is hectic and my schedule is packed. <strong>

**On that note, feedback is always appreciated. Thanks and happy reading! **

**CWM**


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Irene Predicament**

It had seemed to John that Sherlock, over time, was taking his advice. He couldn't believe that Sherlock had gained a social life in just a few short days. He started talking to girls, and Jim didn't seem like such a relevant problem anymore.

John noticed Molly first. She and Sherlock had talked more, bonding in the empty classroom during lunch, realizing that they had slightly-similar musical taste (Molly was very interested in Panic! at the Disco, which was surprising, considering her pastel, sweet-hearted appearance). John had a good feeling that the two would start dating, and that he'd be right by setting them up.

Then there was the mysterious girl on Sherlock's phone. He had heard the moaning a few times a day, noticing Sherlock looking at his phone and reading texts. He never responded to them, though, which John found odd. He didn't get a name, though, just "the girl." John tried to ask questions about her, but he got vague answers.

"Does she go to school here?"

"No." Older? Or just a different school?

"What does she look like?"

"Fair skin, dark hair, curvy figure, green-grey eyes." That could be a lot of girls.

"How do you know her?"

"She took my phone. She seems like a fan, but I'm not so sure." A fan of Sherlock? How did she manage to find him?

"What's her name, hm?"

"Irene Adler." Irene? What kind of name was that? Then again, he was best friends with a kid called "Sherlock Holmes."

"Have you considered dating her?"

This time, there was silence. John had asked that question during their lunch in the empty classroom with Molly. He had heard the phone moan again, looking at the text: "I'm bored. Let's have dinner." Sherlock sighed, not bothering to answer it.

John looked over at the phone to see what the mysterious fan had sent him, but Sherlock locked his phone before he could. Given the fact that Sherlock left it be, maybe he wasn't interested.

"I'm not looking for a relationship right now," Sherlock muttered. "I have school to focus on, and Nutcracker."

"Maybe you should invite Irene to see you?"

"No way! I'm not going to invite her." John noticed Sherlock's cheeks turning pink.

"Are you blushing, Sherlock Holmes?" he teased.

"Fuck off!" Sherlock snapped. He gave a nod of apology to Molly, however, when she cringed. "Besides, she works there, at the dance studio, in one of the offices. She's probably already coming."

"Oh," said John. "That's good. She'll see you dance."

"I bet she already has."

"What part are you playing for?" Molly asked out of the blue. The boys turned to her. "In the Nutcracker. What part do you have?"

"Part?" John was confused.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "The Nutcracker is a story, completely danced through." He looked to Molly. ""I am dancing for the prince's part in the show, but I know the other male roles as well as some female roles, in case they need an understudy."

"Why female roles?" Molly asked.

"My instructor seems to think I have a body slender enough to pose as a woman. Which is fine, because that's what Shakespeare would have said if I was one of his players."

"She basically called your body feminine," said John. "I thought blokes in ballet would have crazy muscles or something, like 8-pack abs."

Sherlock became curious. He looked down and lifted up his shirt. He was incredibly thin, enough to outline the rib cage, but he had a rather flat abdomen. He tilted his head a bit.

"No, not really," Sherlock concluded. John lightly smacked Sherlock's exposed abdomen with the back of his hand. Sherlock flinched, but began laughing with John.

None of them even paid attention to the fact that Molly was blushing red from the sudden exposure. She hid her face behind a book, watching them laugh and mess around with each other like the boys they were.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hello! Agh, I'm sorry that I haven't been posting. I've been way too busy! I have a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it. Plus, I'm not always near technology to post. But I'm getting them written down, trying to add filler after filler. But for your enjoyment, I will give you hints as what to expect next: a few sexual encounters, Nutcracker, and Sherlock calling Jim To ask for a favor. That's it. <strong>

**Anyway, feedback is always appreciated. Thanks and happy reading! **

**CWM**


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